


Second Chance

by Narya_Flame



Series: Second Chance [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Canon Character Cameos - Freeform, Crazy Dreams, Developing Relationship, Different time periods, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fourth Age, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Modern Era, Movie-verse References, Original Character Death(s), POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Post-War of the Ring, Reincarnation, Rohan, Romance, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-05-09 02:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 61,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14707799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: When fifteen-year-old Anna loses her sister in a freak horseriding accident, she has no way of knowing that Izzy has been given another chance to live and love. However, the afterlife works in mysterious ways; soon Anna is plagued by dreams that link her to a young woman from an Age long, long forgotten, and to a blue-eyed foal that she has a nagging feeling she should recognise…





	1. Leaving

**Author's Note:**

> _2013_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> This is one of my older stories. It was written at a time when I was badly in need of catharsis, and was a response to the Animal Transformations challenge over at lotrfanfiction.com. The brief was to write a modern-person-falls-into-Middle-earth tale in which the modern person turns into an animal. It was supposed to be a ten thousand word piece of fluff. Hah. It grew.
> 
> At one point there was a sequel on the cards, but even though I hadn't quite covered all the story mechanics in the first instalment, the emotional journey of the characters was complete. I hadn't left myself with much room for manouevre. I didn't want to do a major re-write of the story in order to cram things in, but I did want to streamline it to make it work as a standalone, so that I didn't feel beholden to it any more. As I said, it's an old story, and I grew a lot when I was writing it. I see the flaws, but I still see a lot that I like, and I care about the characters. I wanted to feel like I'd left them somewhere appropriate.
> 
> There are one or two loose threads even now; I wanted to leave myself the option of going back to the 'verse, while still having a coherent story that works by itself. For that reason there may or may not be a few gapfillers further down the line, but for the time being this is it.
> 
>  
> 
> _2018_
> 
>  
> 
> Unbelievably, this fic is now ten years old. I'm reposting at AO3 with the aim of having all my completed works in one place, and yes, I still have a soft spot for this, despite the odd premise and the immaturity it shows in places.
> 
> I did end up writing a few gapfillers and sort-of sequels - all one-shots - which I will add in due course.

_Pain. Dizziness. Sickness. Confusion, movement, and even more pain. Like fire in her gut. Voices – but they sounded like they were speaking underwater. Sobbing. Ground lurching under her. Pain again – agony, even. She couldn’t see..._  
  
*  
  
“But she was alright at first!” wailed Anna. “She got up and ran after the horse – and then...” She dissolved into tears. Her Dad slipped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed tight.  
  
“It’s alright, Anna,” one of the paramedics assured her. “We’re trying our hardest for her; she’s in the best possible hands.”  
  
“She will be OK, won’t she?”  
  
The paramedic smiled, but she didn’t answer the girl’s question, nor did her smile quite reach her eyes.  
  
*  
  
_The stubble in the mown field dug into her back. Why didn’t they move her? It itched. How she ached. She forced her eyes open. Where was her horse? Where was her sister?_  
  
*  
  
“Her eyes are open! Izzy!” Anna tried to spring forwards, but her Dad gripped her arms firmly.  
  
“Let them do their job, love.”  
  
“But she’d want me with her!”  
  
“I know. You are with her, love. You’ve done so well – you’ve been such a brave girl...”  
  
Normally, Anna would have swatted her Dad’s arm away and berated him for talking to her like a baby – but with her sister lying crumpled on the ground and her insides feeling like somebody had beaten them up with a whisk, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Besides, she realised with a flash of guilt, what must he be feeling? Izzy was his daughter as much as she was Anna’s sister.   
  
She leaned against him and watched in silence.  
  
*  
  
_More pain. They were moving her again. Rattling. Jolting. A siren – blue light. An ambulance. Not good. She closed her eyes. It hurt so much..._  
  
*  
  
“Now, then, poppet, tell us again exactly what happened – so we know what to do for Isabel when we get to hospital.”  
  
Anna took a deep breath. “Well...we were just riding through the field – only walking – and Minstrel stumbled. He – he rolled with Izzy still in the saddle and she went under him...but she was OK, she ran after him when he bolted, then she just fell, it looked like she tripped...”  
  
“Molly!”  
  
The paramedic looked up; one of her colleagues was frantically gesturing her into the ambulance. Her heart sank.   
  
“Back in a moment, poppet,” she smiled, and sprinted over.  
  
*  
  
Izzy wasn’t sure how it happened. One moment she was strapped to a stretcher, in agony, barely able to see or hear. The next, everything had blurred into a whitish mass, like a blanket of snow had settled over her eyes – and then she was floating steadily upwards, and it didn’t hurt any more. She glanced down. A tall, red-headed woman in green overalls was racing towards an ambulance, and standing a little way away was a man with fear etched into the lines of his face. He had his arms wrapped around a brown-haired girl of about fifteen. The two of them looked familiar, somehow, but they were moving further and further away as she drifted up...no. Those two were important, she knew it. She struggled downwards, ignoring the force that was gently yet insistently restraining her.   
  
_Not yet. Not ready._    
  
The red-headed woman was coming back now; the man was shaking his head, and the girl was sobbing.  
  
Slowly, tenderly, Izzy reached out a comforting hand to touch the girl’s cheek; the girl shivered at the contact, and for one brief instant, Izzy felt a flash of remembrance. Warmth suffused her. She pulled her arm away and closed her eyes, and felt the embrace of a power she couldn’t begin to comprehend as the world around her became a mass of light – and then there was no more.


	2. Blue Eyes

Anna lay in bed, eyes wide open. She hadn’t slept in three nights now. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Izzy falling under Minstrel as he rolled, Izzy getting up and chasing after the startled horse, Izzy suddenly collapsing like she’d been shot, Izzy lying on the ground in the cornfield, eyes struggling to focus and begging for help...  
  
She rolled onto her side and hugged her duvet, stuffing the corner of it into her mouth. Her parents’ room was only the other side of her wall, and she didn’t want them hearing her sobs again. Last night her Dad had come in and tried to cuddle her, and she had lain stiff and unresponsive in his arms; though part of her wanted to comfort her parents, another stronger part was screaming to be left alone, to deal with this in her own way.  
  
The funny thing was, it was all pretence. Izzy couldn't be gone. Anna still expected to see her sister around the house, in the farmyard and in the stables. Sometimes she’d catch a glimpse of a horserider in the distance and think from the outline that it was Izzy. Other times she’d walk past her sister's room and think that, out of the corner of her eye, she’d seen the familiar skinny blonde form sprawled out on the bed. It was as if Izzy had merely gone on holiday, or was playing hide and seek – when her parents weren’t watching, Anna would wander round the garden and the outbuildings, searching behind trees and bushes and corn barrels, half-expecting her sister to pop up and yell “Gotcha!” She could picture the scene so clearly; first she’d hug her, thrilled that it had all been a horrible mistake. Then she’d scold her, maybe even slap her for giving everyone such a scare. Then Izzy would laugh all over her freckled face and they’d link arms and walk back up to the farmhouse together, inseparable, the best of friends, the way it always had been.   
  
Suddenly, Anna was seized by an urge to see her sister again – even if it was just in a photograph, she had to see her face. She switched on her lamp and sat up. Her hair, salty and damp from tears, clung in tendrils to her cheek as she scrabbled about in the bedside drawer for one of the few family pictures she kept in her bedroom, a snap of her, Izzy and their cousin on a beach in Spain. Having found it, she gazed hungrily at the scene, her eyes devouring the flawless blue sky and the sugar-soft sand and the smiles on everybody’s faces, but most of all they feasted on the girl in the middle, tall and slender, tanned and truly beautiful in her white bikini. And yet...something wasn’t right. Izzy. That was it. Izzy didn’t look right. Her nose was a little longer than that, surely? And her legs a little slimmer? Or maybe the picture was right, maybe Izzy had looked that way. Maybe Anna’s mind was already playing tricks on her, even after a mere matter of days, warping the image of the sister she had loved more than anybody or anything else in the world. Feeling cheated, she flung the photograph to the floor, jabbed at the switch of her lamp until it turned off, and lay back down.  
  
She didn’t sleep. Though she turned over so that she was facing away from it, all night the picture tormented her from the carpet of her bedroom. She could feel them, the three pairs of eyes, watching her and laughing. Her own, her cousin’s, and Izzy’s. Izzy, locked in the picture, because a picture was now all she’d ever be. Izzy, smiling with those perfect rosebud lips. Izzy, with her suntan and her swishing blonde ponytail. Izzy and her blue eyes, those dancing eyes that always threatened mischief, yet at the same time shone with joy and affection. Those eyes. It was the eyes she couldn’t forget, the eyes staring up at her as her sister lay on the ground, searching and then finally focussing on her face. Those eyes, scared, helpless, beautiful. So innocent. So blue.  
  
  
*  
  
  
 _Edoras, September 3019, Third Age_  
  
  
  
Wulf skidded to a halt outside the stables, gasping air into his aching lungs.  
  
“Steady on, son,” grinned one of the grooms, catching at the boy’s shoulders to prevent him from colliding with the door frame. “We don’t want to spook the horses, do we? Especially not after this morning’s antics...”  
  
“Is...Fleetfoot...has she...?” Wulf choked out, but the groom seemed not to hear him.  
  
“Who’d have thought it, eh?” he sighed, shaking his head. “Old Brego wending his way back here after all these months – nobody had seen him since Dunharrow, you know!”  
  
“Yes, sir...Fleetfoot...”  
  
“ Skin and bone he was when he was found,” the man continued. “Felaróf alone knows how he managed to survive all that time in the wild...although weak as he might have been, he still didn’t take kindly to us putting a bridle and rein on him, no indeed!” His bearded face broke into a good-natured chuckle. “Always was a spirited horse, that one. Ah, I remember Prince Théodred breaking him in as a colt...”  
  
“Sir...do you know...”  
  
“Still, we’ve got him all settled now.” He scratched at his chin, then seemed to suddenly remember Wulf’s presence. “Anyway, lad, what are you doing tearing about the city like all the hounds of the Golden Hall are on your heels?”  
  
Wulf had waited patiently for the older man to finish his rambling, and now had to refrain from uttering a sigh of relief. “I was wondering, sir, if Fleetfoot had foaled yet.”  
  
“Ah, you’ll be Aldhelm’s boy,” he smiled. “No, you’re in time. Your father’s down at the end stall with her now.”  
  
“Thank you.” He sidled past the groom and between the stalls, appreciatively sniffing at the sweet, hay-scented air and savouring the feel of the earth yielding under his feet. He smiled. Nowhere in Edoras made him quite as happy as the stables. One of the horses snorted as they rubbed their neck along the top of their gate, and the creature’s hot breath ruffled his hair. He chuckled as he reached up to smooth it down again – then jumped violently as a horrific noise erupted from the stall to his left.  
  
“That’ll be Brego,” called the groom over the racket of banging and braying.  
  
Wulf stared. Brego was bucking and rearing and rolling his eyes; the panic emanating from him was almost tangible. His chestnut coat glistened with sweat, and his ribs jutted visibly from his sides.  
  
“You poor creature,” the boy murmured, stepping forward and raising one hand. “What in the name of the King has happened to you?”  
  
“I wouldn’t, Wulf,” came a gentle voice from the end of the stables.  
  
“Father!” Wulf ran to meet him, forgetting Brego for the time being. “Mother said Fleetfoot was...has she...?”  
  
“Not yet, but she is near; she expelled her waters some time ago.” Smiling, he put his one hand on the boy’s shoulder. Wulf swallowed, and couldn’t prevent his gaze from travelling up his Father’s right hand side to the gaping space where his other arm should be. Aldhelm had lost it to an infection from an Orcish arrow at the battle of Pelennor Fields, and the boy shuddered at the memory of his father lying on the surgeon’s pallet, weak and feverish and bleeding. Even now, months afterward, he couldn’t quite get used to the sight.  
  
As though sensing his son’s grim thoughts, Aldhelm squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. “Come, Wulf. I may need your help.”  
  
That was certainly true; more than one hand would be needed if anything at all went wrong with the foaling, and the boy knew that Aldhelm wasn’t willing to rely on the grooms to help his precious Fleetfoot. The grey mare was of Snowmane’s line, a handsome and valuable creature with a sweet temperament; Aldhelm used to boast that she was the only mount in Rohan he would trust to carry his children bareback. Wulf smiled. Despite his claims, his father had never put that theory to the test – a pity, really, since he longed to try riding without tack, after the fashion of the legendary Elf who had fought with them at Helm’s Deep. Well, if this new foal were strong and healthy then it was to be his – Aldhelm had promised – and he, Wulf, would train it so well that he’d be able to gallop all over the plains without need for a saddle. Adrenaline rose in his stomach at the very idea, and he gave a wriggle of delight. Mistaking his anticipation for nerves, Aldhelm slipped his arm across the boy’s shoulders, and together they waited.  
  
They remained outside the stall, both knowing that it was best for the mare to birth alone if she could, though Wulf leaned forward on the gate. Excitement flooded through his veins like a bubbling brook. This was the first birth he had ever been allowed to participate in, though he had often watched from a distance, with his mother holding his hand to make sure he did not cause a nuisance. Fleetfoot lay down, rolled and got up repeatedly; when he was younger, Wulf had used to jiggle with impatience at this stage, but now he was learned enough to know that it wouldn’t last long. Sure enough, she soon settled down, and after a little more waiting Wulf let out a squeal of joy.  
  
“The feet! The feet! I can see its feet!” he whispered, clutching at his Father’s arm.  
  
“Hush, boy.”  
  
Wulf fell silent again, biting his lip to prevent another outburst, and watched as Fleetfoot lay on her side and rubbed against the straw. Little by little the foal emerged. Still partly covered in a thin membrane, its gangly body glistened as its mother released it into life. Delight built in Wulf’s chest as warm as the hot brick he took to bed on cold winter nights, and as he watched Fleetfoot cleaning the new arrival he had to remind himself to breathe.   
  
“A little filly for you, Wulf,” Aldhelm smiled, running an approving eye over the new arrival. “Well, that was all as easy as can be, and she certainly looks strong enough; she should grow into a fine mare.”  
  
Wulf nodded without taking his eyes off the foal. The little creature was enchanting – pure white and fragile-looking, and when she turned her head –  
  
“By Felaróf and Eorl the Young!” exclaimed the groom Wulf had almost run into earlier. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day – she’s got blue eyes!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brego's story is not in the books, but can be seen in the extended edition of _The Two Towers_.


	3. A Difficult Evening

“Blue eyes?” scoffed Wulf’s older sister Beomia as they settled down to dinner. “Don’t talk nonsense!”

“I’m not!” retorted Wulf. “It’s true, isn’t it, Father?”

“Aye. It doesn’t happen often, but it is possible.”

“Well, aren’t you the lucky one,” Beomia muttered, tearing a crust of bread from the loaf on the table and stirring her stew with it. She kept her eyes fixed on the bowl and let her tangled brown hair fall across her face.

Aldhelm exchanged a worried glance with his wife, then turned back to his young son. “Have you thought of a name for her yet, my boy?”

“No,” answered Wulf, chewing thoughtfully. “I did wonder about Whitemist, but-”

Beomia made a choking sound in her throat; Wulf stopped and glared at her indignantly.

“Are you alright, dear?” asked their mother, beginning to rise from her stool.

“No,” the girl coughed. She lifted her head and met her brother’s gaze, anger sparking in her eyes. “Wulf, how dare you!”

“What have I done now?” he protested.

“Whitemist!” she hissed, her face flushing red. “Have you no sense of decency? Of respect? Whitemist, Wulf – think!”

“I don’t know what-”

“Whitemist was his horse, you fool! Don’t you remember? Well, no, perhaps you don’t.” Her voice was rose in pitch and volume, and her bushy hair trembled as she began to shake. “Orvyn, remember? The man I was supposed to marry? The one that you couldn’t wait to welcome into our family, the one that you two claimed to love as much as your own son?” Here she turned flooding eyes on her parents and gave a loud hiccup. “Except he was k-killed at Helm’s Deep, and you all seem like you c-can’t wait to forget hi-im...” Her voice fluctuated and dissolved into sobs. Aldhelm leaned across the table and reached for her hand but she snatched it away, catching her bowl of stew; for a moment it wobbled precariously on its base, hesitantly, as though undecided, then it seemed to make its mind up and tipped into Beomia’s lap. With an explosion of fresh tears she kicked the bowl across the floor and ran to the bedroom.

For a few moments the remaining three sat in silence, as though Beomia’s outburst had been an enchantment of some kind, cursing them into quiet. Wulf stared at his sister’s empty stool and felt a knot of guilt and discomfort form in his stomach. A chill and cruel hand began to pluck at his insides, and he began to talk at the same time as his mother and father.

“I didn’t mean to-”

“I should go-”

“Well, that was-”

They all stopped at the same time, too. Wulf dropped his gaze and began to pick at a hole in his breeches.

“Go on, son,” said his father in a gentle tone. “What were you going to say?”

“I didn’t mean to upset her,” he mumbled. “How was I supposed to know that Orvyn’s horse was called Whitemist?” A hard note of defiance crept into his voice, and he looked up again. “It’s a common enough name – what I was going to say before she...”

“Before Beomia,” interrupted his mother, raising an eyebrow. “It’s rude to say ‘she.’ “

“Yes, mother. Well, all I was saying before Beomia got upset was that I thought about Whitemist, but I decided it was too common. There are plenty of horses called Whitemist in Edoras, just as there are plenty of boys called Wulf and plenty of girls called Beomia!” He folded his arms and added for good measure, “ So there.”

“I think I should go and speak with her,” sighed his mother. “She’s wallowed in this for long enough – we all loved Orvyn dearly, but she’s only seventeen, and there will be others...”

“Leave her be, Eadwyn, at least for a short time,” Aldhelm interrupted. “Let her compose herself – and when you do speak to her, for the sake of Eorl don’t mention that you think she should be encouraging other suitors! Well, not unless you want your eyes scratching out and feeding to the dogs, at any rate,” he smiled, winking at Wulf.

Eadwyn sniffed. “All very well to say such things, Aldhelm, but you cannot deny that she’s doing herself no good. Night and day she feeds her grief – she won’t smile, she wanders off by herself, she won’t stand to hear his name mentioned...and then we try and please her by avoiding the subject and she accuses us of forgetting him!” She shook her head. “I know that I, for one, never will. Such a dear boy, always merry and laughing...and my, those golden curls! Many a maid would have been jealous of those, I’m sure.” Her voice began to crack slightly; she dabbed at her eyes with her apron, and suddenly seemed to become aware of Wulf watching her. “Eat your stew, boy,” she told him, her briskness not quite hiding the tremble in her tone. “It’ll get cold.”

Obediently Wulf began to spoon up the smoky-smelling liquid and forced himself to chew and swallow. He feigned absorption in his meal, keeping his eyes fixed on the glistening ripples that wobbled away from his spoon every time he dipped in, while straining to catch his parents’ conversation.

“My dear,” his father whispered, “you cannot expect poor Bee to simply forget about Orvyn. The two of them were very much in love...”

“She was sixteen when she met him, and he was barely into his twenties! What do they know of love at that age? I’m sure she was very fond of the lad, but as I said, there will be others – or rather, there are others. I hope you realise that Ida’s son Aiken has been making enquiries?”

“How could I fail to realise when you insist on discussing it every time our daughter is out of the room?” sighed his father wearily. “Eadwyn, my love, have you forgotten what it was like to be young? Not in a hundred Ages will you persuade Bee to marry Aiken – he’s almost forty!”

“But he’s steady and kind and dependable-”

“And he’s going bald.”

Wulf could not help the snort that escaped him at this remark. His mother scowled.

“Stop your eavesdropping, young Wulf! Finish your dinner and take yourself off to the stables, why don’t you?”

“Yes, mother.” He gulped down the rest of the stew, though the heat made his throat sore; it wasn’t often that Eadwyn permitted him to leave the house after dinnertime, especially not to go to the stables. As he slipped down from the table, he felt a tug of regret that he would not be able to glean any further information – but then again his parents had fallen silent, concentrating on their own meals.

The air outside smelled wet and warm and fresh. Wulf inhaled deeply. There was nothing at all like the scent of Edoras on a summer’s night – the tang of smoke and roasting meat, the lush bitter-sweetness of greenery and foliage just reaching the end of its prime and the ripe, leathery odour of horse-sweat, all mingled with that mysterious perfume of Dark that had begun to steal through the streets and the houses as soon as the sun had set. Excitement stirred in Wulf’s belly. It was a beautiful night, and he was to spend with Fleetfoot and her foal, the perfect little white foal which his father had promised him for his very own. Happiness swelled in him, and he set out for the stables.

Passing Beomia’s window, he heard an odd snuffling sound, and paused to look in. His sister was curled into a ball on her pallet, her face buried in the covers, still sobbing. The cold hand crept back for a moment, dampening his excitement, and he nervously nibbled his lip. He hadn’t meant to upset her. He wondered if she knew that their mother wanted her to marry Ida’s son Aiken, who was nearly forty and going bald. He thought not. Should he tell her? No, best not to. It would only make her worse, and it wasn’t as though their parents would force her to marry anyone she didn’t wish to. She was safe enough – but even so, it seemed churlish to leave without a word of comfort. He rested his elbows on the sill and leaned into the room.

“Bee? Bee, I’m really sorry about before.”

He heard her take a shuddering breath. “Go away, Wulf.”

“I’m going to the stables to see the foal – do you want to come?”

“Wulf. Go away. Now.”

“No need to be like that,” he said in an injured tone, withdrawing. “I was going to ask if you wanted to name her, but now I shan’t.”

“Why should I care what you name your stupid foal? Leave me alone!”

“She’s not stupid,” he replied, but all the same he complied. He walked slowly, thinking that Beomia might lean out of the window and call him back, but she didn’t.

The cold hand gripped his innards tighter. As usual, he had only managed to make things worse.

The horse-warmth and hay-scent of the stable comforted him somewhat, and Fleetfoot snickered in welcoming recognition as he hopped over the door to her stall. His foal was curled up in the corner, but rose on spindly legs to greet him; keeping one eye on Fleetfoot to make sure she didn’t object, he held out his hand to the youngster, allowing her to snuffle at it with her velvety muzzle.

“You are a little beauty, aren’t you?” he murmured, kneeling down in the scratchy bedding and letting both mother and foal muss his hair. He ran a hand over her warm sleek body, admiring the flawless white expanse – and then it came to him. “What about Annis, Fleetfoot? What do you think to that? Is she an Annis?”

Fleetfoot snorted and gave him a gentle nudge, which he took as a sign of approval. Little Annis, apparently tired of fussing around her master, settled herself beside him and pushed her muzzle into the crook of his elbow. Laughing, he gently rubbed her neck and nose.

Some time later, he heard the far door creak open, and almost immediately a racket of banging and braying erupted from across the stables. Fleetfoot began to shift nervously, and little Annis started to her feet.

“Oh, be quiet, you old fool horse!” snapped a girl’s voice from nearby.

“Bee? Is that you?” called Wulf, getting up. “Don’t mind Brego; Father says...”

“I’m not interested in what Father has to say about Brego. I’ve been sent to fetch you home.”

Sighing, he turned and kissed the top of Annis’ head, and gave Fleetfoot’s nose one last rub. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he promised them, and vaulted over the door to their stall.

“Talking to the horses?” asked Beomia, shaking her head. “You’re going mad, little brother.”

“Am not. You were talking to Brego.”

As if in response to his name, the noise began again as the horse kicked and reared. Covering her ears, Beomia ran from the stables; Wulf followed, attempting to suppress a grin.

“What could possess him to behave like that?” Beomia asked, closing the door behind them.

Wulf shrugged. “Ever since Prince Théodred was killed, father said that the only man who’s been able to do anything with Brego was King Elessar. Apparently he put some kind of Elvish spell on him to calm him.”

His sister smiled slightly. “Wulf, your head is full of nonsense. Elvish spells, indeed!”

“It’s true,” insisted Wulf. “Lady Éowyn saw him do it. Anyway, he rode him into battle and took him all the way to Dunharrow, but Brego panicked when he got near the Paths of the Dead. He bolted, and until this morning nobody had seen him since. Father thinks that the terror of that place has driven him even madder than he was before.”

“From the tales I’ve been told of the Haunted Mountain, it’s enough to make even grown men lose their wits, let alone a horse that was only half-sane to begin with.” She shivered. “Come on; we ought not to speak of such things after dark. We should go home.”

For a while they walked in silence, then Wulf remembered his news. “I called her Annis.”

“What?”

“I called her Annis,” Wulf repeated. “My foal. I’ve named her Annis.”

Beomia nodded and kept walking. Wulf trotted anxiously beside her.

“Well?” he asked eventually. “What do you think?”

Her face tightened. “As I said before, what you name your foal matters nothing to me.”

She quickened her pace; Wulf sighed and followed on.


	4. Awakening

He couldn’t see. Why couldn’t he see? Nearby a woman was screaming and crying; her sobs were harsh and ragged and wild, and they hurt his ears. Pain throbbed dully in his skull, and with each pulse came a wave of nausea. He wanted to be sick. Everything was white, a bright agonizing blur...but now there were shadows, shadows shaped like people. He struggled to focus on their fuzzy outlines as they poked at him with fingers coated in some tight, slippery, unnatural material. A bitter alien scent clung to them, a clean yet unpleasant odour that felt scratchy in his nose. Something was not right. He wished the woman would be quiet so he could think and try to understand, but now she was choking out a word between her sobs, incessantly crying, “Derry, Derry!”   
  
 _What’s Derry?_  he wondered. The word meant nothing to him. No, not nothing. The more those two syllables fell on his ears, the more they stung a buried part of his aching brain, but he forced his thoughts away from there – the pain was too sharp, the effort too great. He was tired. There was a high-pitched, rhythmic beeping sound in the background. It too sounded unnatural, but it was oddly soothing in its regularity.   
  
Beep. Beep. Beep.  
  
His lids were heavy.   
  
Beep. Beep. Beep.  
  
His eyes itched.   
  
Beep. Beep.  
  
More poking.   
  
Beep.  
  
 _Enough. Enough for now._  
  
He slipped back into the comforting blackness, away from the unnatural world of white light and blurred shadows, and for a few moments before it enveloped him entirely he saw the rolling green of his home country, but he felt no peace. The scratchy smell followed him into his dreams and the woman’s broken voice rang in his ears, crying out for Derry.


	5. Time Flies

School began again in the second week of September, a fortnight since Izzy’s accident. Anna didn’t want to go back – school was yet another place that Izzy should and no longer would be – but her parents insisted.  
  
“It’ll do you good to get out and about,” they told her.  
  
She protested that she wanted to stay and help them around the house, but they weren’t to be convinced.  
  
“We don’t need help, love. We’re fine. You go off and spend some time with your friends.”  
  
Her insides wilted at that last remark; her friends were the last people she wanted around at the moment. Louisa and Nat had both come to the funeral in spite of her argument that they didn’t have to, and had spent the entire wake following her around like a pair of anxious mother hens. Neither of them seemed to understand that she wanted space – they had cuddled her and fussed her and had made endless cups of tea, but each little act was like the prodding of a rancid wound, and every inane bleat of “Are you sure you’re OK?” only served as a reminder that things would never be OK again. The carefully constructed sympathy of her friends and family was suffocating. What she craved was normality; nothing in her life felt right any more, as if everything in it had warped out of shape in response to the hole that Izzy had left. Even the most mundane of tasks took on an odd surreal sheen. It felt alien that she should be eating breakfast or going to muck out the horses or even walking and breathing at all after everything that had happened. Going back to school would only add to this sense of the pseudo-normal. She would go and she would pretend that things were the same as ever, but the painful knot that seemed to have settled in her gut would taunt her, and Nat and Louisa would be too nice to her, and the teachers would single her out for special treatment, and all these little niggles would come together and remind her of her grief as effectively as a neon billboard sign that proclaimed “Your Sister Is Dead.”  
  
She didn’t say any of this to her parents. Whatever they might tell her, they weren’t fine either.  
  
She went back to school.  
  
*  
  
“Oh my gosh, there she is! Aw, bless her, she must feel awful...”  
  
“Shut up, Kit; she’ll hear you.”  
  
Anna ignored the whispered conversation to her right and flopped into her seat, feigning nonchalance. Mr. Proust was writing equations on the board. Algebra. Algebra was good. Algebra made sense no matter what was going on in the outside world.   
  
Taking out her exercise book, she focussed on warming up her rusty mathematical muscles and pretended that she couldn’t feel the sympathetic stares of her classmates. This was just another day at school – another normal, perfectly average day. Nothing had changed. Nothing.  
  
*  
  
“For those of you who have not yet heard, we regret to inform you of the death of one of our students. Isabel Murphy was killed in a tragic riding accident a little over two weeks ago. A popular, kind-hearted and clever student, she will be sadly missed by everybody at here at Lowood...”  
  
 _Funny,_  Anna thought as cold seeped into her from the uncomfortable assembly room floor.  _This is the part in the books and the films where you’re supposed to get angry. I shouldn’t be able to listen to this. I should be storming off in tears or something – maybe raging at Miss Howarth for making Izzy sound the same as every other person that ever died. Hah! It’s true, though. Head teachers always say the same things at times like these; they must have some sort of special website that they download their speeches from. Any minute now we’ll catch her out – instead of Isabel Murphy she’ll say Person X, and then the game will be up..._  
  
She kept her thoughts firmly on this bizarre track, tensing and concentrating even harder whenever they threatened to deviate. The more she told herself stupid stories about the secret conspiracies of Head teachers, the easier it was to forget what Miss Howarth was talking about and relax into her monotonous pattern of speech as though she was merely reading out the sports fixtures, or the menu for school dinners.   
  
A few rows away, a plump, dark-haired girl who had played hockey with Izzy began to cry. Anna glanced over, but didn’t join in.  
  
*  
  
“Anna? We’re going up to the newsagent’s – do you want to come?”  
  
“We’re not allowed-” Anna began, and then realised. They were in Year Eleven now. They were had permission to go off-site at breaks and lunchtimes, as long as they could persuade a Sixth Former to walk with them. She considered, then shook her head. “I’ll stay here. I don’t have any money anyway.”  
  
“I’ll buy you something,” Nat offered.  
  
“Nah. Don’t worry, it’s OK. Maybe tomorrow,” she lied.  
  
“Anna, are you...?”  
  
 _Don’t you dare say it!_  “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.”  
  
*  
  
“Miss Murphy, might I have a word?”  
  
Anna jumped as Mr. Proust caught at her arm in the middle of the seething corridor. “Actually, sir, I’m just on my way to Art...”  
  
“I just wanted to say that if you need a friendly ear, my door’s always open to you.”  
  
 _Oh, piss off! Like I’d come and talk to you, you dozy old git – like you’d even understand!_ “Thanks, sir. Will do.”  
  
*  
  
“Anna! Anna, come and sit here!”  
  
Louisa waved at her frantically from across the English classroom. Anna hesitated, then slid into a seat on an empty row at the back and quickly started rooting through her bag so that she didn’t have to meet her friend’s hurt stare.  
  
*  
  
She sat alone again at lunchtime and studied her term schedules for her various subjects. Scanning the list, one phrase jumped out at her.  
  
“Religion and Philosophy – Unit 1: Is Death the End?”  
  
She felt like she’d swallowed a large lump of ice; her insides went cold and her throat felt tight. For some reason her ears prickled. Heat flooded her face. God, the irony of it! She crumpled the page and glanced around, wondering if it was a joke, if someone hadn’t been tampering with her copy of the schedule.   
  
Around her, students were laughing and joking with each other. Nearby, a table of brand new Year Sevens questioned each other about their hobbies and interests, tentatively trying to forge friendships in this strange new world of Secondary School. On the table next to them, the plump girl who had been crying about Izzy in Assembly was now feeding her boyfriend spoonfuls of her chocolate sponge, giggling and flicking his nose when he pulled a puppy-dog face and begged for more.  
  
Anna got up and left the canteen, leaving her tray of spaghetti bolognaise untouched on the table.  
  
*  
  
“Before we begin, I’d like to announce a slight alteration to the scheduled curriculum.” Mr. Barnes, the Religion and Philosophy teacher, adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat crossly when the class continued to chatter. “Settle down, please, ladies and gentlemen! You aren’t on holiday anymore!”  
  
One by one they fell reluctantly silent. Anna, who was sitting next to Nat and had been getting heartily sick of her friend’s narrative about her latest crush, had to stop herself from sighing in relief.  
  
“As I was saying,” Mr. Barnes continued, “rather than beginning with Unit One, we will now begin with Unit Three. Unit One will be covered later in the year.”  
  
Anna longed to say something, but she didn’t know what. She knew she should feel gratitude towards Mr. Barnes for making the change but in truth she was irritated. The alteration had been made for her benefit. She didn’t want special treatment. She wanted normality.  
  
  
*  
  
The kitchen door clunked shut as the warm, sweet smell of baking cakes rushed to greet her. Her heart sank. The smell of baking meant only one thing.  
  
“Hello, poppet!” beamed her grandmother, bustling through from the living room. “How are you feeling?”  
  
 _Just wonderful, Grandma._  “Oh, not bad.”  
  
“Lovely, lovely...your mother’s not doing so well, is she? I popped round this morning for a cup of coffee and she seemed ever so distracted - didn’t invite me to stay for lunch, which is odd in itself, so I had a little look in the fridge (not to be nosy or anything, sweet, but I had to make sure you were all looking after yourselves) and my word, it was like Mother Hubbard’s cupboard! So I did a quick run to the shops for you and thought I’d stay around this afternoon and make a few treats for when you got back in from school...how was that, by the way? Your Dad said you were ever so reluctant to go – I’ll bet it wasn’t half as bad as you thought it would be, was it?”  
  
“Nope.”  _It was about ten times worse._  “Everyone was really nice.”  _And I wanted to slap their smug, sympathetic faces for it._  “It was fine.”  
  
The days that followed were all fairly similar – a uniform march of kindly teachers, curious classmates and lesson after lesson after lesson. Oddly, the lessons were her favourite part. She didn’t have to hold a conversation with her English book. She didn’t have to explain to her Art sculpture why she hadn’t sat next to it in Assembly. She didn’t feel obliged to go and eat lunch with her Physics homework.   
  
A few weeks into term, she realised she was drawing wary stares from certain members of the student body, and did something that had become very unusual for her these days. She initiated a conversation.  
  
“Louisa?”  
  
“Mmmph?” her friend uttered through a mouthful of Kit-kat.  
  
Anna shuffled on the creaky wooden bench they were perched on. “Do people think I’m weird or something?”  
  
Louisa swallowed and stared out across the concrete playground, watching some of the Year Eight boys try to ping the bra straps of their female contemporaries. Eventually she answered, “Well...no.” But there was a waver in her voice that denied it any ring of sincerity.  
  
“You can tell me. I won’t mind.”  
  
Her friend sighed. “It’s not that they think you’re weird, Anna. It’s just – don’t take this the wrong way – you’ve lost an awful lot of weight.”  
  
“Oh.” Anna plucked at the waistband of her pleated skirt, and was mildly surprised to find how loose it was. She hadn’t been eating huge amounts, it was true, but it wasn’t deliberate. “I’m not doing it on purpose. I’m just not hungry.”  
  
“No, Anna, I know that. But...you know... you look kind of gaunt. Unhealthy.”  
  
“Thanks,” she said, raising her eyebrows.  
  
“I said not to take it the wrong way!”  
  
“I know. I’m sorry.”  
  
Her grandmother, too, commented on this when she next visited, and announced her intention to feed her up. Anna did not object. Where Grandma was concerned, it made life far easier just to do as she was told.  
  
The colour of the days drifted from green to gold to rusty brown and finally into wintery grey, with nothing to punctuate them except some very odd dreams. To her confusion, Anna had begun to see images of the same things in her sleep – a stable in the middle of a city on a hilltop, a curly-haired boy dressed like a medieval peasant, and a little white foal with wide blue eyes. Strangely, the foal looked older every time she saw it, as though it was growing up, and from time to time it would turn around and look her in the eyes, almost as if it knew she was there. It puzzled her. Obviously she had heard about recurring dreams, but she had always dismissed them as being made up by attention seekers, or as psycho-babble at best. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was cracking up. Losing it. Maybe she needed a shrink. Her mother had suggested it not long after the accident but she had rebuffed the idea immediately; her feelings were her own and she didn’t want to share them. Talking to a stranger about Izzy would be as humiliating as dancing naked down Brighton Pier.  
  
One morning when the cold was particularly vicious, she was startled to get to school and find the corridors bedecked with tinsel, garish baubles and shiny paper decorations. A large tinfoil banner above the doorway to her form room bore the slogan “A Very Merry Xmas,” and the desks had been rearranged to surround a wilting Christmas tree that was topped by a singularly ugly Angel Gabriel.  
  
“Looks like the Christmas fairies have paid us a visit, eh, Miss Murphy?” said Mr. Proust with a wink as he bumbled past her. When she didn’t reply, he added, “Oh, go on, then, you’ve got me. Maybe it was the Year Seven Art class.”  
  
“I can’t believe it’s Christmas,” she murmured, depositing her satchel onto her desk. Her gaping amazement had not been for the beauteous creations of the school’s youngest Art students, but for the sudden realisation that it had been more than three months since she had knelt next to her sister in that field of stubble, holding her hand and waiting for the ambulance and praying to she knew not what that Izzy could hold on. Suddenly she felt furious with the twinkling decorations. They were in place to celebrate the very thing that hadn’t heard those prayers, that had dared to take her sister away from her.   
  
“Time flies, doesn’t it?” Mr. Proust answered airily, unpacking the register from his briefcase. “Right then, ladies and gentlemen, let’s see who’s managed to get themselves to school on time today...”  
  
For the last two weeks of term Christmas was everywhere, infecting every aspect of school life, even the lessons that had been her refuge for so long. In Maths, they were given statistics about the hours Santa’s elves spent in the toy factory and asked to find the average length of an elf’s working day. In English, the set texts for GCSE were put away and copies of  _A Christmas Carol_  were dusted off and distributed. Art lessons were given over to decorating the set for the Nativity play at the local primary school. Teachers talked whimsically about the magic of Christmas, a priest came into Assembly to preach to them about how the miracle of Christ’s birth was still relevant in the world today, and on the last day of term the dinner ladies provided a Christmas feast of dry turkey, burnt stuffing and gloopy gravy.  
  
As Anna and her classmates waited for the dismissal bell in their form room at the end of the day, a palpable sense of excitement hovered over them like a swarm of midges congregating around a stagnant pond. She sat between Louisa and Nat at the back of the room as they talked over her head in loud excitable voices. That wasn’t uncommon these days – though they rarely left her alone, they had stopped trying to force her to engage in conversation, and left her to her thoughts. She felt the occasional pang of guilt, but the more time that passed, the less she felt she had in common with them. To her they seemed unbelievably childish, concerned with the merits of Vaseline versus lip gloss, whether boys preferred short or long hair, or where the latest designer knock-offs could be bought for the cheapest price. What did any of that matter?   
  
The current topic of debate was whether Mr. Proust could officially be considered “hot for an old guy,” but she was spared further irritation by the distribution of end-of-term reports. She scanned the two sides of A4 for anything alarming before she took it home and delivered it to her parents, but for the most part saw only the usual comments – “conscientious,” “dedicated,” “a promising start to the year.” However, one paragraph near the bottom leapt out at her.  
  
“This term, Anna has applied herself with even more than her usual vigour. While such efforts are indeed commendable, members of staff have voiced concerns that she may be working herself too hard in order to distract herself from issues in her personal life.”  
  
Her gut bubbled and heat rose in her neck and face, making her jumper itch uncomfortably. She glanced over at Mr. Proust but he had his back to her, and she didn’t want to call him over. Seething, she read over the offending phrases again. How dare they! They had no idea, they didn’t understand, not in the least! What on Earth gave them the right to talk about her and Izzy in such a bland, impersonal way?  
  
On her way home she slipped it into a dustbin. It was their first Christmas without Izzy – she was fairly sure her parents wouldn’t remember to ask for it.  
  
*  
  
Christmas day itself was a non-event for Anna and her family. There was no snow. There never was. Her grandmother came over and made Christmas dinner and jollied them into singing carols and watching  _The Sound of Music_  on TV, but she fooled nobody. Their forced cheerfulness was like a sculpture made of spun sugar – a casual observer might take it for real glass, but for anyone in on the secret it would be a simple enough thing to take it in the palm of their hand and shatter it with one good squeeze.   
  
Anna excused herself from the festivities early, claiming a headache. She went to bed and dreamed of her little white foal.


	6. A Very Odd Dream

Beomia hated winter. As soon as she left the shelter of the city walls, the gale screaming down off Mount Starkhorn began to whip at her skirts; tendrils of hair escaped the knot at the back of her neck and blew around to lash her in the face, and she snuggled into her shawl. The rough wool scratched at her neck, and the fingers of the wind wormed their way in through the holes, but it was better than nothing. The plains of Rohan, usually lush and green, had been dulled by the greying touch of winter; the wind sent fierce waves rippling across the grass and howled in ghostly lament as it tore through the rocky outcrops. The sky was a gloomy off-white, and a drizzling rain had begun to fall, misting on her clothes and beading in her tangled hair. She cursed Wulf for wandering off in this bleak weather.  
  
“Wulf!” she called out as she neared the herd, who were grazing at the bottom of the hill. “Wulf! Father says you’re to come home!”  
  
A few of the horses looked up at the sound of her voice and pricked their ears, but her brother did not answer. She sighed. “Wulf, where are you?”   
  
Her only answer was the wailing of the wind and a few snickers from the herd, as if they were laughing at her. It wouldn’t surprise her if they were – Orvyn had always maintained that the horses were at least as intelligent as the humans that rode them. She remembered him telling her a story last winter, when both of them had been huddled round the fire in her kitchen. While Wulf sipped milk in a corner, the flames had licked lazily along the logs and Orvyn had recounted how, as a youth of no more than fourteen, he had been out riding a young colt in the plains. It had stopped dead in the middle of a canter; he had been flung to the ground, but even so he had reassured the horse, re-mounted and urged it on again. Still the creature would not budge. Puzzled, he had climbed down and checked the ground ahead, only to find that what looked like firm, springy grass was in fact a dangerous bog.  
  
Beomia had shuddered in horror at the thought of how close her beloved Orvyn had come to death; he had laughed and smiled and pulled her close.  
  
“Don’t worry, Bee – it was years ago!” he had said.  
  
“But you could have drowned!”  
  
“I could have, but I didn’t.” His teasing tone had sobered, and he had rested his chin on her head. “I’m in far more danger every time I go out on patrol.”  
  
“Oh, don’t!” she had pleaded. “I don’t know how you can do it when any minute you might be shot or...”  
  
“There’s no sense in not doing something you love, or something that needs to be done, just because you’re afraid of what might happen. You start to think like that, and soon you’ll be afraid to set foot outside your own door.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Well,” he had replied with a malicious grin, “have you never considered how dangerous it is merely to walk down your own street? Why, you might trip over someone’s log pile and break your neck, or you might be savaged by a stray dog, or you might catch a deadly plague, or...”  
  
Eadwyn had intervened at that point, scowling and wagging a wooden spoon in their direction. “I’ll thank the pair of you to stop this nonsense – you’ll frighten young Wulf out of his skull!”  
  
Beomia had laughed and swatted playfully at her betrothed. “Yes, you great fool – be quiet!”  
  
But she had understood. There was no sense in worrying over things that couldn’t be changed.  
  
She had tried telling herself this when he had kissed her goodbye when he rode of to war, and whispered it through the long nights as she waited for his return. But it hadn’t helped when his brother had found her and told her of his death. It hadn’t helped the frozen weight of grief that had settled in her chest and not shifted since. It hadn’t helped her when she had begged to see his body and been kindly but firmly refused.  
  
“He wouldn’t have wanted you to see him like this,” his brother had said.  
  
She could only imagine what kind of mangled shell must have been left of the golden-haired man she loved.  
  
A nudging at her elbow jerked her attention back to the present, and she looked down to see Wulf’s little white foal gaping up at her with those wide blue eyes.  
  
“What?” she mumbled, her voice thick with choked-back tears. “I don’t have anything for you. Go on, shoo!”  
  
But the foal did not shoo. Instead, it pushed its muzzle into the folds of fabric around her waist and snorted gently.  
  
“Get off!”  
  
“She likes you.”   
  
Beomia jumped as her brother suddenly materialised at her side, and she scrubbed fiercely at her eyes. “Wulf, where have you been? I was shouting...”  
  
“I was up on that rock watching the horses. I saw you, but I didn’t hear you. The wind was in my ears.”  
  
“Yes, awful, isn’t it? Oh, will you stop it!” This last part was directed at the foal, who was nibbling at her shawl and eyeing her with all the innocence of a newborn Elfling.   
  
“Leave away, Annis,” scolded Wulf, tugging at the foal’s mane. She released Beomia and gave her master an injured stare before flicking her tail and flouncing off into the mizzling rain.  
  
“She’s grown, hasn’t she?” Beomia remarked.  
  
“Oh, yes,” said Wulf proudly, running a hand through his damp curls. “Father says she’s going to be enormous...oh!”  
  
For Annis had stopped next to a large chestnut gelding and was now gently nudging at its face while it grazed. Beomia noted with alarm that her brother had turned a sickly white.  
  
“Annis, get away, get away!” he whispered.  
  
“Wulf, whatever-?”  
  
“Beomia, that’s Brego, mad Brego! He’ll kill her!”  
  
And before she had time to react, he was sprinting towards the two of them, shouting fit to burst his gut.  
  
“Hey! Hey, leave her be!”  
  
“Wulf!” She tore after him through the curtains of mist, shawl streaming behind her. Her heart leapt up and hammered in her throat as her brother approached Brego, flailing his arms as if he were mad himself.  
  
“Leave my foal alone!” He hurled himself between Annis and the older horse; startled, Brego whinnied and reared up.  
  
“Wulf, no!”  
  
Afterwards Beomia had very little memory of the incident. She remembered Brego’s screams and the wailing of the wind in her ears, Wulf’s startled yelp as she knocked him out of the way – then pain, an explosion of pain in her right shoulder. The next thing she knew, her cheek was pressed into the sodden grass, her side was throbbing and she was gasping desperately for breath.  
  
“Bee! Bee!”  
  
She rolled over onto her back, spitting strands of hair out of her mouth and blinking confusedly.  
  
“Bee, please say something!”  
  
She heard cold fear and tears in her brother’s voice, and with some effort she managed to splutter, “Wulf, you’re a born fool.”  
  
“Oh, Bee!” His tears finally won, and as Beomia eased herself up he flung his arms around her waist and sobbed. “You’re alive, you’re alive...”  
  
“Of course I am.” Her voice was weak, but had lost none of its customary impatience; nonetheless she wrapped her arms around him, wincing as pain raced across her right shoulder. “What happened?”  
  
“B-Brego’s hoof caught you on the shoulder...you knocked me out of the way...Bee, you were so brave!”  
  
“Hmm. I wouldn’t have needed to be if you hadn’t gone and jumped in front of that crazy horse – what in the name of Eorl possessed you to do that?”  
  
“He was going to hurt Annis!”  
  
“Oh, really?” Beomia raised her eyes and smiled. “Look.”  
  
Annis was now nose-to-nose with the older horse; after a few moments Brego snorted and gave her a gentle nudge.  
  
“She was never in danger, Wulf. Next time, please use your head before you go galloping off like a wild stallion. It seems to me that the two of them are good friends.”  
  
Wulf snuffled. “I’m sorry for being so stupid.”  
  
“It’s alright,” said Beomia lightly, ruffling his hair. “You can’t help being an addle-brained lackwit.” Seeing her brother’s brown eyes fill again, she relented. “Oh, come, Wulf. We all make mistakes. You were only worrying about your foal.”  
  
“But you could have been killed!”  
  
Her stomach seemed to turn to water inside her as she said, “I could have – but I wasn’t.” She took a deep breath. “We’d best be going – Mother and Father will worry.”  
  
“Can you walk?”  
  
“I’ll manage.” Setting her mouth in a firm line, she got gingerly to her feet. “There – good as new.” A velvety muzzle nibbling at her hand made her turn; Annis was there once again. “And that’s enough from you for one day, young lady! Why don’t you go and find your mother?”  
  
The foal’s blue eyes looked nothing short of heartbroken as Beomia pushed her away, and the girl felt an odd regretful ache in her chest. “I didn’t mean it,” she found herself saying. “It’s only that Wulf and I need to go home and dry off...”  
  
“Talking to the horses? You’re going mad, sister,” teased Wulf. She aimed a gentle cuff in his direction, and he ducked with a mischievous grin.  
  
*  
  
The little boy’s twinkling smile was still etched into Anna’s mind as the harsh ringing of the alarm clock jerked her unceremoniously out of sleep. Groaning, she opened one eye and checked the dial.   
  
_0600?_  
  
For a moment she was puzzled – then comprehension dawned and a sick wedge of dread lodged itself in her throat. The Christmas holidays were over. It was time to go back to school.  
  
Yawning, she prodded the “snooze” button and cuddled into her duvet, breathing in the sweet, homely smell of her bed. She shut her eyes again and let her mind play over her dream. They were getting more vivid every time – tonight she had been able to feel the damp in her hair and the icy blast of wind around her legs. No doubt she had kicked the covers off at some point...although that wouldn’t explain the dampness...had she been crying in her sleep? Unlikely – her pillow was dry. As always, she had seen the little white foal – except it wasn’t so little anymore. It had grown hugely since the first time she had seen it. The curly-haired boy called Wulf had been in the dream too (he had called her something strange – Beomia, was it?) and another horse, a chestnut. It had struck her shoulder, she remembered, and shivered. Strangely for a dream, she had felt the pain. She must have been sleeping in an awkward position and stretched a muscle.  
  
When the dial reached 0615, she reluctantly climbed out of her soft cocoon and made for the shower. The water in the bathroom was always cold on a morning, so she switched the jet on and let it run as she began to strip off. As she tugged her t-shirt over her head, a twang of pain ran through her shoulder; puzzled, she craned her neck around to get a better look at her back in the mirror.  
  
Ice cascaded into her stomach and burning bile rose in her throat. Outlined against her winter-pale skin was an angry purple hoof-shaped bruise.


	7. The New Boy

She told no-one. Her parents and grandmother would fuss over the injury itself and search for a rational explanation. Nat and Louisa would think she had finally lost it. She went about her school day routine as normal and left the house at eight o’clock, just as the sun was beginning to rise.   
  
School itself looked disturbingly stark and bare now it had been stripped of its gaudy Christmas decorations. The corridors felt cold and naked as she made for her form room, and for once she was glad to slip into the chattering mass of bodies perched on desks and swapping holiday gossip.  
  
“Anna! ANNA!”  
  
Nat and Louisa were waving furiously at her from across the room; she smiled and waved back, then after a hesitant pause she moved over to join them. As soon as she was within reach, the pair of them seized her in a tight, several-armed hug; she yelped as they squeezed the bruise on her shoulder, but they didn’t hear her over the sound of their own voices.  
  
“You’re never here this late!”  
  
“We missed you!”  
  
“You didn’t phone once!”  
  
“Sorry,” said Anna, disentangling herself. “I was...well, you know, we were pretty busy.”  
  
“How was your Christmas?” asked Louisa carefully.  
  
Anna shot her a sharp look. Her friend’s question may have sounded casual enough, but Nat was now watching her intently, and Louisa’s eyes were full of the same kind of sympathy that had been so galling at the funeral.  
  
“It was fine,” she answered eventually, and cast about for a change of subject. Her eyes fell on an unfamiliar figure hovering nervously by the radiator. “Who’s that?”  
  
“New boy,” giggled Louisa. “What do you think? Cute or not?”  
  
Anna considered. The newcomer was tall with floppy dark brown hair. His build was slim, his face was long with an upturned nose, and he had an eyebrow piercing. In Anna’s view, his only standout features were his eyes – they were large, grey, expressive, and framed by thick dark lashes – but even they were marred by the purplish circles lining the socket beneath them. Even so, she supposed he could be considered attractive by those who liked the skinny rocker type. “He’s not bad. What’s he doing, starting a new school a term and a half before GCSEs?”  
  
“Who cares?” replied Nat, eyeing him with obvious interest.  
  
“Nat, for goodness’ sake, could you be any less subtle?” laughed Anna as Mr. Proust bumbled in with the register and turned round to beam at them all.  
  
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!”  
  
A few members of the class muttered unenthusiastic greetings in response; Mr. Proust was entirely too cheerful for nine o’clock in the morning. However, the lukewarm response seemed enough to please him, and he nodded happily at anyone who met his eyes.  
  
“A warm welcome back to all of you – and in particular, welcome to our newcomer, Mr. Derry Allerton.”  
  
The boy by the radiator gave a shy smile. Murmurs of curiosity rippled around the room, and Nat whispered in Anna’s ear, “Derry – cute name!”  
  
“Are you daft?” Louisa whispered back, incredulous. “What sort of idiot calls their kid Derry?”  
  
Registration was taken, and a Maths lesson began. Anna was just settling herself between Louisa and Nat when Mr. Proust glanced in their direction, and he cleared his throat.  
  
“I think not, Miss Murphy.”  
  
Her heart shrank in her chest as he singled her out.  
  
“I’m going to separate you three this term, if you don’t mind.”  
  
“And what if we did mind, sir?” asked Louisa with a cheeky smile.  
  
“In that case, I would offer my sincere apologies – but still separate you,” he replied, twinkling. “I’ve had enough of the persistent chatter that seems to pervade my classroom whenever you three are seated at the same desk. Miss Murphy, you will please change places with Miss Alghata and sit beside Mr. Allerton.”  
  
Nat uttered a soft moan of envy as Anna got to her feet.  
  
“Splendid, splendid,” smiled Mr. Proust, and turned to write the date on the board.  
  
The new boy shuffled sideways to make room for Anna as she slipped in beside him; she smiled slightly and whispered, “Thanks.”  
  
“No problem.”  
  
His voice had a lilting accent and a slight singing quality to it – she guessed he was from the north-east. “It’s Derry, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah…sorry, you’re…?”  
  
“Anna.”  
  
“No talking, please!” called Mr. Proust over his shoulder. “Or perhaps you want me to move you again, Miss Murphy?”  
  
“No, sir.” It was only then that it struck her how odd it was that she should have been the one to be moved – she rarely spoke in class, the chatter was all Louisa’s and Nat’s. Her stomach turned over in realisation. She, the grieving social misfit, had been selected to babysit the new boy in the hope that they would help each other. A typical teacher scheme. Irritation surged through her like an allergic reaction – she immediately felt less inclined to befriend Derry Allerton, unfair though that might be to him.  
  
However, after Mr. Proust had returned his concentration to the blackboard, Derry turned and gave her a sympathetic smile. The genuine warmth in his eyes surprised her, and she found herself smiling back.  
  
“Now, as you all know, mock exams are fast approaching,” announced Mr. Proust. He was answered by a universal chorus of groans, and a few heads sank onto desktops. “As such, I thought we’d do a little revision this week. I want you to separate into groups of two or three, depending on how many of you are sitting at your desk. I will come around and assign each group a topic; over the course of the next few lessons you will prepare a presentation on said topic, and at the end of the week you will deliver your presentation to the rest of the class. Everybody clear?”  
  
“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” grinned Derry to Anna’s left. “Can I apologise in advance? I’m not all that great at Maths.”  
  
She laughed. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” She shuffled her chair around so as to be in a more convenient position to talk to him; her shoulder ached again, but she buried the thought of it as best she could. “So…erm…how are you liking Lowood?”  
  
As soon as the words had left her mouth she wished she could swallow them back. What a bland, inane question!  _You’ve blown it already, Anna,_  she told herself.  _He’s going to think you’re nothing but a boring little nerd once you get started on this presentation._  
  
Derry, though, didn’t seem to mind. “Oh, it seems alright,” he replied. “But then again, I’ve only been here for…maybe three quarters of an hour? Still plenty time yet for it to turn out to be a hell hole!”  
  
It was Anna’s turn to grin. “It isn’t that bad. Where are you from?”  _Again with the dull, safe questions. Anna, you’re an idiot._  
  
“Newcastle, originally – hence the accent. But me and my Mum moved down here just before Christmas.”  
  
She was saved from having to make any more witless enquiries by the timely arrival of Mr. Proust.  
  
“Rules of indices for you two, I think,” he told them, consulting his list. “Alright?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“Splendid, splendid…Derry, how are you settling in?”  
  
“Fine sir, thanks.”  
  
“Glad to hear it.” He lowered his voice. “If there’s anything you need help with, you only have to ask.”  
  
If Anna hadn’t spent the last four and a bit months desperately trying to avoid any special attention from the teachers, she would most likely not have noticed anything unusual about Mr. Proust’s offer. However, there was an intensity to his voice and an unspoken question in his eyes that reminded her painfully of the way he had spoken to her for much of the previous term. She switched her attention to Derry, gauging his reaction.  
  
“I’m fine at the moment, sir. Thanks, though.”  
  
His tone was carefully even and his eyes remained fixed to the desk as he said it. A small thrill of empathy ran though her; she felt sure that when had Derry said “fine,” it had meant the same thing to him as it did to her. It had meant “I’m not fine, but I wouldn’t tell you so if you paid me, so piss off and leave me alone.”  _You crafty old sod,_  she thought, watching Mr. Proust’s retreating back.  _Two kids with issues, and you foist them off on each other. Well, he seems nice enough. I’ll go along with it for now – but don’t start trying to play matchmaker. I draw the line at the eyebrow piercing._  
  
As it turned out, Derry wasn’t too bad at Maths, though occasionally Anna had to explain things twice to him and once he managed to confuse squaring and cubing. He was quiet for a while after that, apparently embarrassed to have made such a basic mistake, but even so they made reasonable progress. By the time the bell rang for break, they almost had the outline of their presentation complete.  
  
“You know,” commented Anna as they packed away, “if we both do a bit of work on this tonight, we could get the outline finished – that way we could make a start on the slides tomorrow and have plenty of lesson time left for rehearsal.”  
  
“Sounds like a plan,” said Derry, nodding. “My place after school?”  
  
She looked up, surprised. She had actually meant that they should work on it separately, and the thought of having to socialise outside school with someone she barely knew was a daunting one – she had spent months on end deliberately avoiding conversation. On the other hand, though, conversation with Derry didn’t have to be related to or overshadowed by Izzy. He was new; he knew nothing about all that – nor did he yet know of Anna’s own recently-acquired reputation as “that skinny crazy girl.”  
  
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.  
  
He flashed her another warm grin. “Come on – I’ll cook us dinner if you help me with the Maths. Can’t say fairer than that.”  
  
 _Dinner?_   she wondered to herself.  _You’re going to cook me dinner? Do you think this is a date?_  But even if he did, she reasoned, it would be easy enough to clear up the misunderstanding – and besides, an evening working on algebra at someone else’s house was infinitely preferable to going home and putting up with the clucking of her grandmother. “Sure,” she smiled. “Thanks. That’d be great.”  
  
His mouth lifted, and his whole face somehow seemed lighter – even the shadows under his eyes appeared lessened. “Listen, what are you doing now?”  
  
“Erm…”  
  
“Ready, Anna?” piped Louisa from the door.  
  
“Just a second,” she called, then turned back to Derry. “I was just going up to the newsagent’s with Nat and Louisa,” she said, wondering why her voice sounded so apologetic.  
  
“Oh, OK, no problem.” He returned his attention to stuffing exercise books into his satchel. “Have fun – I’ll see you later on.”  
  
Anna bit her lip, feeling inexplicably guilty. She glanced over at Louisa and Nat. Louisa merely rolled her eyes, but Nat started gesturing and mouthing frantically; Anna frowned, then realised what her friend was trying to say and forced herself not to laugh.  
  
“I don’t suppose you’d like to come with us?” she asked Derry. “I think my friend wants to meet you...”  
  
“Are you sure?” he asked. “I don’t want to intrude.”   
  
Anna swung her bag over her shoulder. “Don’t be silly. Come on – I’ll introduce you.”  
  
Mr. Proust had observed this exchange whilst pretending to mark Class 7B’s homework. Now, as the four of them headed down the corridor, chattering and giggling, he allowed himself a small satisfied smile.


	8. Dinner and a Discovery

Nat was swift to commandeer Derry’s attention. They hadn’t even made it out of the school gates before she was laughing hysterically at his every sentence; by the time they got back from the newsagents she was hanging off his arm.  
  
“Fast worker, isn’t she?” Anna muttered to Louisa as the four of them trooped into English and Nat quickly bagged the seat next to Derry.  
  
“She’s trying too hard,” yawned Louisa, flopping into her chair. “God, I’m shattered – why can’t school start at lunchtime?”  
  
He sat with them again in the canteen, though this time he placed himself firmly between Anna and Louisa. Nat narrowed her eyes but said nothing.  
  
“Told you so,” Louisa mouthed smugly to Anna.  
  
Following afternoon registration, Derry disappeared – he wasn’t in Anna’s Art class, and when she later reconvened with Louisa and Nat in Physics, he wasn’t there either.  
  
“You scared him off, Nat,” teased Louisa.  
  
Nat scowled and didn’t speak to her for the rest of the lesson.  
  
He was, however, waiting for Anna in the form room at the end of the day.  
  
“Ready?” he smiled at her.  
  
She nodded. “I think so.”  
  
“Wait – where are you two going?” demanded Nat.  
  
“Nowhere exciting – just back to my place to work on the Maths project.”  
  
“Come on, Nat; time we went,” announced Louisa. “See you tomorrow, you two!” she called with a meaningful glance back at Anna, who cringed again at her friends’ lack of subtlety.  
  
Nat left without another word to either of them. A yawning silence opened with her departure, and Anna was suddenly so reluctant to interact with her companion that it felt like her eyes were glued to the floor. She felt a leaden sense of regret that she had agreed to dinner anywhere other than home. The prospect of an evening alone with Derry hadn’t seemed so terrifying when she had been surrounded by her peers and it was only a vague, abstract idea – now, confronted with the reality, she felt as though she were about to march into battle.  
  
Derry sighed, suddenly looking as tired as she felt. “Your friend with curly hair didn’t seem to like me very much – Nat.”  
  
“Nat?” Anna forgot her embarrassment and almost laughed with incredulity. “Trust me, she did.”  
  
“Well, I thought she did – then after English...I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Maybe I said something.”  
  
She decided not to bother explaining the intricacies of the situation, deciding that it wasn’t fair on Nat, and settled for saying, “She can be a bit moody sometimes. Don’t let it worry you.”  
  
He nodded, looking relieved. “Anyway, we’d better go – Mum’s probably parked outside.”  
  
Anna did her best not to react with obvious surprise. Even she, on the very edge of the school’s catchment area, always walked home; only the babies in Year Seven had their parents ferrying them about.  
  
In spite of her efforts, Derry noticed her reaction and grimaced. “I know, I know, but she insisted. She can be a bit – er – fussy.”  
  
His mother was a small, pretty woman with expensive clothes and a slightly shrill voice. She beamed with delight when Derry introduced Anna and professed her immense relief that her son “seemed to have met some nice, friendly people.” Anna smiled politely at her attention, while watching Derry’s blatant embarrassment with interest. His features seemed to be set in an expression of mingled wariness and resentment that was thoroughly at odds with the relaxed, laidback personality he had displayed at school. His mother, meanwhile, chattered happily away to the pair of them and didn’t seem to mind that the responses she received were brief. From time to time, though, her periodic glances into the rear view mirror lingered for longer than necessary, and some instinct told Anna that she was watching her son.  
  
When they reached Derry’s house (which was certainly not far enough from school to warrant driving) his mother followed them into the living room and fussed with the magazines on the coffee table and the cushions on the sofa until Derry asked her to leave. His tone was polite enough, but even so she blinked, looking hurt. Anna itched with curiosity – there was something distinctly odd about this little family – but she didn’t dare to pry. Not yet.  
  
“Sorry about her,” muttered Derry as his mother retreated.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Oh, come on – she treats me like a five-year-old!”  
  
“Well, she’s probably just worried about you starting a new school,” Anna said diplomatically. “Parents are like that.” Then an intriguing possibility struck her. “You have been to school before, haven’t you?”  
  
“Yeah.” He hesitated. “But not for a while.” He licked his lips and opened his mouth as if about to say more, then appeared to change his mind. His face brightened. “Anyway, what do you want to do first? Dinner, Maths or just relax?”  
  
With his mother gone, Derry slipped back into being his former friendly self. He was the perfect host, fetching Anna cans of Coke from the fridge and insisting that she should choose what they watched on TV. They chattered easily with  _Friends_  providing the background noise, and Anna felt the tight knot of nerves within her gradually unwinding as they discovered similar tastes in TV programmes and a mutual love of books.  
  
“Though the set texts we’ve got for English are awful,” complained Derry, pulling a face.  
  
“ _Romeo and Juliet_ ’s alright,” said Anna shyly.  
  
“Oh, please!” Derry rolled his eyes. “They behave like a pair of spoilt brats!”  
  
Anna opened her mouth to argue that he was missing the point, but was interrupted by her stomach giving a humiliatingly loud growl. She reddened; Derry laughed.  
  
“Your stomach agrees with me, even if you don’t!” he teased. “Come on – kitchen.”  
  
“Do you need any help?” she asked, getting up and following him.  
  
“I’ll tell you when I’ve worked out what we’re having.” He began rummaging through the fridge. “Any allergies I should know about?”  
  
“Nope.” She perched herself on a chair and watched him. “Do you do a lot of cooking?”  
  
“Erm...” He turned to her, a packet of fresh pasta in one hand. “What would you think of me if I said yes?”  
  
“I’d feel extremely intimidated.”  
  
He raised his eyebrows. “Why?”  
  
“Well,” she said with a sly smile, “you’re a secret  _Friends_  fan, you’d rather read a book than watch the football, and now you cook as well...where are your flaws? I’m starting to think you’re entirely too perfect.”  
  
It was only after the words were out of her mouth that Anna realised just how stupid she had sounded, and heat rushed to her face again. Derry, however, didn’t seem to mind, and gave her an impish smile. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that...anyway, you haven’t found out about my taste in music yet! Do you like prawns, by the way?”  
  
“Love them,” she replied, relieved to be back on safer subject matter. “Er – what do you mean about your taste in music?”  
  
“Hang on.” He dumped an armful of ingredients onto the countertop and flicked on the iPod speakers that were plugged in at the wall. A haunting, gentle, uneven piano melody began to drift through the room, and Anna let out a low whistle of surprise.  
  
“Classical music?”  
  
“I know,” he said, looking apologetic.  
  
“I was expecting...I don’t know...”  
  
“Metallica?”  
  
“Something like that,” she admitted.  
  
He chuckled. “It’s OK; it’s what most people assume, with the hair and the piercing. I’ll turn it off.”  
  
“No, leave it. It’s pretty.” And she meant it; the initial melody had developed into a repetitive, floating theme that seemed to speak of summer and rest. “What is it?”  
  
“One of Bach’s partitas. You honestly like it?”  
  
She nodded. “Beats Metallica, anyway!”  
  
“Definitely.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Couldn’t set me a pan of water boiling, could you?”  
  
They laughed and talked as Derry cooked and Anna did her best to help. She found herself wondering at the ease with which she had relaxed into his company and at the ready giggles that bubbled out of her – though perhaps this had something to do with the wine that Derry had opened, insisting his mother wouldn’t mind.  
  
“She always lets me drink with meals,” he had assured her, seeing her doubtful expression.  
  
“My parents sometimes let Izzy, but not me,” she had blurted without thinking. Her insides had felt as though they were shrivelling up as she said the name, and she hoped Derry wouldn’t start questioning her about her family life.  
  
“Izzy’s your sister?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
And the subject had passed.  
  
As they were plating up, Derry’s mother bustled into the kitchen. “Everything alright in here?” She caught sight of the wine on the table and frowned; immediately Anna felt the uncomfortable prickle of guilt. “Derry, should you be drinking that?”  
  
Derry visibly tensed. “I’m fine, Mum.”  
  
“Are you sure? You know you can’t mix your tablets with alcohol...”  
  
“I know. I haven’t had any today,” he ground from between gritted teeth.  
  
“For God’s sake, Derry, all I’m doing is showing a little concern,” she snapped. “There’s no need for that defensive tone.”  
  
“Mum, will you please trust me to look after myself?” he sighed, rolling his eyes.  
  
“Trust you?” she almost shrieked – then her eyes fell on Anna, who was awkwardly fiddling with the table cloth. She turned back to her son and took a deep breath. “We won’t have this discussion now, not while you’ve got your friend here – but believe me, young man, we will be having it later.” Her voice wobbled slightly as her self control began to fracture, and she turned and stalked from the room with her hand to her mouth.  
  
Anna released her breath without realising she’d been holding it. Derry buried his head in his hands.  
  
“I am so, so sorry,” he said eventually.  
  
“Don’t worry,” was Anna’s automatic reply.  
  
Derry’s responding smile was hollow. “Don’t worry? God, what must you think of us?”  
  
“Nothing... I mean, it’s none of my business, is it?” She hesitated. “Are you sick? Is that what it’s all about? Why you haven’t been at school, why your mum was asking about medication...”  
  
“Not exactly.” He ruffled his hair and sighed. “Well...I guess you might as well know. I’d rather you heard it from me than from my Mum.” He paused, biting his lip. “I was shot – oh, months ago now,” he added hastily, seeing her expression of shock. “It was June last year, when we still lived up in Newcastle. My parents were mid-divorce, I was going off the rails...to cut a long story short I got in with a bad crowd.”  
  
“And they shot you? Just like that?” she whispered.  
  
He lifted the floppy curtain of hair that hung over his forehead to reveal a surprisingly small purple scar lined with stitches. Anna gasped.  
  
“In your head?”  
  
He let the lock fall back into place, grinning sheepishly. “I suppose there were less dramatic ways to tell you that.”  
  
“You’re right there.” She hesitated, suddenly uncertain. “I don’t know what to say.”  
  
“Neither do most people. That’s why I keep it quiet – it’s a bit of a conversation killer.”  
  
“Do people at school know?”  
  
“The teachers do, yeah.”  
  
She remembered Mr. Proust’s disproportionate concern for Derry in the Maths lesson. “You’re OK now, though, aren’t you?”  
  
“Well...yeah. Mainly.”  
  
“Mainly?”  
  
He sighed. “If I’m honest, it wasn’t that bad. I know, that sounds stupid, doesn’t it?” he added as he caught her look of sheer disbelief. “But it wasn’t half as bad as it should have been. Actually I was bloody lucky – it was an accident, one of the younger lads pratting about, he'd nicked a gun from his brother. I was one side of the park, he was the other, it was meant to be a joke…” He swallowed. “It wasn’t a close-range shot, so the bullet had slowed down a fair bit and didn’t penetrate my skull. I still get headaches from it...I have painkillers for those, that’s what Mum was on about...I get tired easily...sorry, you probably don’t want to hear any of this!”  
  
“No, no, I do – I mean, only if you want to tell me; I don’t mind if you don’t...”  
  
“It’s just I feel like I can talk to you.” The words came out in a rush, and he coloured up as they tumbled from his mouth. “Sorry, that sounded so corny!”  
  
“It didn’t. Not at all.” Shyly, she reached across the table and folded her hand into his. “I’m useless at this sort of thing – well, you’ve probably worked that out by now – but if you ever do need to talk...obviously I’ve never been shot, but I think I understand how you feel.”  
  
“How can you understand?”  
  
His voice was perfectly neutral, not hostile in the least, but even so she regretted her words. For an instant she was tempted to tell him about Izzy, to show that their situations may not be the same, but that she did know what it was like to be constantly hiding how you felt, pretending you were alright when all you really wanted to do was lock yourself in a room and scream until your lungs collapsed. Instinctively, though, she knew she shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be right to pull his sympathy and thoughts over to her when he so obviously needed to talk. She’d tell him about Izzy eventually – but not now.  
  
“How bad is it? Really?” she asked.  
  
He pressed his lips together. “I was unconscious for nearly two days. When I woke up I – my mind was all over the place, I didn’t know my own mother, I couldn’t remember my name. I even started remembering stuff that hadn’t happened, could never have happened...almost like a past life or something...weird, right?”  
  
“Weird,” she agreed, but her heart had started beating rapidly. This sounded uncomfortably close to her own experience with the dreams of the white foal...is that what they were, long-buried memories of a past life? She longed to question him, but he kept talking.  
  
“Obviously it all came back to me eventually, otherwise I wouldn't be at school, but even now my short-term memory can be...y’know...not brilliant. I forget stuff occasionally.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Maths equations, for one thing.” He squeezed her hand and let go. “Anna...thanks.”  
  
Clearly that was supposed to end the discussion; Derry picked up his fork and began to tuck into his bowl of pasta, and Anna did the same. Even so, there was one question she was desperate to ask. She allowed the silence to stretch out for a short while before casually asking, “Derry?”  
  
“Mmm?”  
  
“Look, I understand if you don’t want to answer this, but – what do you mean, you were remembering stuff that never happened?”  
  
He swallowed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure...I suppose it’s all stuff I dreamed while I was out of it.”  
  
“No, I mean, what’s it like? What do you remember?”  
  
He didn’t seem to think her inquisitiveness was odd, and answered, “It felt like a dream. You know when you wake up and all you remember is odd images – fragments?”  
  
“Yes,” she said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.  
  
He nodded. “Well, it’s like that, only...more vivid. I remember what things felt like, what I thought...” He hesitated. “I remember living in this medieval mud hut kind of thing...I can still smell the smoke...I know, it sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Well, not necessarily crazy...” she said, feeling her stomach perform a somersault.  
  
“Just a bit batty.” He shook his head. “You haven’t even heard the best bit yet – I was engaged.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yeah. To this peasant girl called Beomia.”


	9. "I'll be a spinster first!"

All sensation vanished from Anna’s body; she lost her grip on the fork and it clattered to the floor.  
  
“Anna? Anna!”  
  
She wasn’t quite sure what happened; suddenly, from being seated opposite her, he was at her side with his hand wrapped around her wrist. Her lungs had shrunk, she couldn’t breathe – and she was cold. The room seemed to have hazed out around her; she feared that the chair she was sitting on would disappear if she didn’t cling onto it.  
  
“Anna, please, talk to me, you’re scaring me!”  
  
Derry’s voice was shaky. He was worried. For some reason, that calmed her. His fear was real, a precious, tangible detail that acted as an anchor to her panicked brain. “I’m...alright,” she lied, taking a deep breath.  
  
“Are you sure? Your face – Jesus, you look awful, if you could see yourself...should I get my Mum?”  
  
“No. I’m OK. Honestly.”  
  
This time it wasn’t entirely untrue; she did feel better, and the kitchen was coming back into focus around her. Perhaps she had simply misheard what he said – although a nagging voice in her mind smugly pointed out that not many names sounded much like “Beomia”...  
  
“You’re sure?” A crease of anxiety nestled between his eyebrows.  
  
“Yeah. Sorry – you were saying?”  
  
He shook his head. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“Yes, yes it does!” she said, a little too eagerly. “You were married to...who, sorry?”  
  
He eyed her warily. “Why do you want to know?”  
  
“I – I’m just curious.”  
  
Something closed behind his eyes; he got to his feet and took a step back. “So you can go off and tell your friends, is that it? Laugh at the crazy new boy behind his back?”  
  
“No! Of course not – that isn’t it at all...I wouldn’t...”  
  
“Then why ask about it?” He folded his arms. “Anna, what I told you, I wasn’t making any of that stuff up. Don’t you think I’ve had enough of being talked about? That’s why we moved down here; we wanted a fresh start...”  
  
“I know. I’m sorry.” She bit her lip. “It’s just...well...I thought you said ‘Beomia’.”  
  
“And what if I did?”  
  
She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. “This is going to sound crazy. Maybe you’d better sit down.”  
  
His expression still cool and mistrustful, he sat himself down opposite her and she began to explain about her dreams. Disbelief was etched into his face throughout. Eventually, unable to hold his gaze, she dropped her eyes and mumbled the rest of the story to the table.  
  
“So...yeah. That’s about it, really,” she finished lamely.  
  
For a few moments there was silence. She risked a glance upwards. Derry was leaning back in his chair with his arms folded and his face carefully blank. Their eyes locked briefly, then he shook his head and sighed.  
  
“Well, it was imaginative, I’ll give you that.”  
  
“No – Derry...”  
  
“Have you any idea what this has done to me and my Mum? It might seem funny to you, that my memory’s completely screwed up...oh, wait, you probably think I’m making it up, right? Because that’s what you’d do?”  
  
“No! I-”  
  
“Because I’m not,” he spat. “It might sound like bullshit, but it’s true. And yeah, I know, it’s weird. I sound insane. But I still told you, because you seemed so...so nice, with your innocent girl-next-door act and your maths projects and...I trusted you!” He took a shuddering breath. “I trusted you. I didn’t think you seemed like the type who’d...well.” His voice was quieter now, coloured more by hurt than anger. “Just do me a favour and don’t tell your friends.”  
  
“I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?” She rubbed her nose, thinking carefully. “Look, I’m sorry if you think I’m making all this up, but you don’t know me very well, so I’ll let you off – this time.”  
  
“Oh, thanks,” he replied sarcastically, and turned his head away.  
  
“Derry, I’m not lying and I’m not laughing at you! Maybe this is all a huge co-incidence, but I promise you I’ve had dreams about a girl called Beomia, and in those dreams I see through her eyes. I am her. And it’s all set in some medieval town, like you said. And there are horses – lots of horses.”  
  
He was still avoiding her eyes, still sullenly silent. She sighed and decided to throw caution to the winds. “Look, your Beomia – does she have a younger brother called Wulf?”  
  
His head whipped around; panic lit his eyes. “How the hell do you know that?”  
  
“Because I’m not lying to you. And her father is...hang on...Ald-something?”  
  
“Aldhelm,” he whispered. His face had turned the colour of gone-off cream.  
  
“And they have a foal – a little white one –”  
  
His eyebrows dipped. “Not that I remember – just an older horse...”  
  
“Fleetfoot.”  
  
“Fleetfoot,” he echoed mechanically, shaking his head. “My God...”  
  
“I know. Hey – are you OK? You look awful!”  
  
He smiled slightly. “Didn’t I say that to you?”  
  
She chuckled. “Fine. We’ll call it a draw.”  
  
“You really weren’t taking the piss, were you?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“I’m sorry I said...”  
  
“Forget it. I’d have probably thought the same thing if I were you.”  
  
Suddenly he looked hopeful. “Am I dreaming, do you think?”  
  
“Er – no.”  
  
“Thought not.” His shaky smile slipped, and suddenly he looked very vulnerable. He swallowed, and when he spoke there was a break in his voice. “What’s going on, Anna?”  
  
“I don’t know,” she replied, cold enveloping her once again. “I don’t know.”  
  
*  
  
“I don’t know, I tell you!” protested Wulf. “I shut the door properly; she must have let herself out...”  
  
“Horses,” said his mother grimly, “do not let themselves out of the stable and come trotting home after their masters. A dog, yes, perhaps. A horse – no. If you can’t be more careful then I’ll start sending your father or your sister with you every time you go to visit your foal, since it’s quite obvious you can’t be trusted by yourself.”  
  
“In fairness to the boy, Eadwyn, Wulf’s foal is unusually intelligent,” stated Aldhelm mildly. “One can almost see the thoughts behind its eyes...”  
  
Eadwyn snorted. “I wish it would think a bit harder before it sticks its head through my window and brays fit to frighten the life out of me!”  
  
Wulf was unable to help the smirk that tugged at his lips, earning him another glare from his mother.  
  
“I believe Wulf,” declared Aldhelm, sitting down. “If for no other reason than he loves that foal. He is exceptionally diligent in every aspect of its care. I highly doubt that he would leave the door to its stall open.”  
  
“Hmph. Well, at least it’s been put away now.” Eadwyn glanced around. “Where’s Beomia?”  
  
Wulf looked over his shoulder as though expecting her to materialise there. “She was with me when we were chasing Annis...”  
  
“I know.” His mother went back to stirring the broth bubbling over the fire, and Wulf sniffed appreciatively. “Well, she’d better not be too long, that’s all; Aiken’s coming to visit today.”  
  
“Oh dear – perhaps I’d better take myself off for a long walk in the plains. Afternoon, Wulf,” Beomia added as she breezed through the door.  
  
“Hullo, Bee...”  
  
“You’ll do no such thing,” Eadwyn scowled. “I expect you to be here to welcome our guest when he arrives.”  
  
“Oh, but I feel a terrible headache coming on,” Beomia protested, her eyes wide and innocent.  
  
Aldhelm made a peculiar noise somewhere between a snort and a cough. Wulf glanced at his father in surprise.  
  
“Headache indeed.” Eadwyn rapped her ladle against the pot with unnecessary rancour. “That’s what you said yesterday when he was coming...”  
  
“I can’t help it if my health is rather delicate of late.” She flopped onto a stool next to her father.   
  
“Young lady, I don’t know how you dare!”  
  
Wulf cringed. The last time he had heard his mother use that tone, he had been caught stealing sweetcakes from the larder.  
  
“Oh, come, Mother,” soothed Beomia, going over and taking her arm. “Aiken’s such a bore – you wouldn’t expect Wulf to be around to entertain him, so why do you need me?”  
  
“He comes on purpose to give his regards to you,” Eadwyn replied stiffly.  
  
“Yes, I know. I’m not stupid, Mother. I know he’s trying to pay court to me; that’s why I cannot be around, don’t you see? Poor man, I can’t let him think that he’s in with a chance of marrying me!”  
  
Only then did Wulf remember the overheard conversation from months ago, about Ida’s son Aiken who was nearly forty and going bald, and he gasped in horror.  
  
“Hush,” whispered his father, patting his shoulder.  
  
“It’s alright, Wulf,” Beomia grinned. “I won’t be marrying him; it would almost be more appropriate for him to be paying court to Mother!”  
  
Eadwyn pursed her lips. “Beomia, he’s a good man.”  
  
“Oh, I know, but even so...”  
  
“And thoroughly respectable.”  
  
Beomia’s smile faded. “Mother?”  
  
She sniffed. “All I’m saying, my girl, is that you’re in no position to be turning your nose up at perfectly decent suitors."  
  
Her daughter’s features rearranged themselves into a glower. “And what do you mean by that?”  
  
“What do I mean?” Eadwyn’s voice rose in a shrill spiral; Aldhelm rubbed his forehead and averted his eyes. “I mean that you were promised to Orvyn for nearly a year and you’d been making doe-eyes at each other for months before that; you were well known to be far too soft on each other, and you were spotted plenty of times sneaking off to the Lower City together at night! Yes, I know all about that, you needn’t look so shocked...Beomia, there isn’t a woman in Edoras who believes your maidenhead to be intact, and trust me when I say that there aren’t many men will take soiled goods.”  
  
A silence hung in the house as if Eadwyn’s words had torn a hole in the very air. Beomia gaped as though her mother had struck her.  
  
“Father, I don’t understand...”  
  
“Quiet, Wulf.”  
  
Stung, the little boy pulled his knees up under his chin.  
  
“Mother,” asked Beomia, lifting her eyes, “what do you believe?”  
  
“Me? Well...”  
  
The girl’s eyebrows lifted.  
  
“Beomia, that is beside the point!”  
  
“So you don’t believe that I had enough self-control to keep my honour until my wedding night.” Her voice was low and taut, as it always was when she was trying to keep control.   
  
“I didn’t say...”  
  
“Father?”  
  
When she turned tear-filled eyes on Aldhelm, Wulf longed to rush forward and hold his sister tight, but something told him that now was not the right time.  
  
“Bee, I trust you to have done the right thing,” said Aldhelm simply.  
  
Beomia’s mouth lifted a little at the corners. “Thank you, Father.” She raised her chin defiantly. “Your trust wasn’t misplaced. When Orvyn and I used to go down to the lower city, it was so that we could talk, out of the reach of wagging ears and cackling tongues. Never, not once did we...”  
  
“Hold your tongue and don’t speak of such things in front of your brother!” snapped Eadwyn.  
  
The tears spilled. “Mother, believe me! Why would you take the word of gossiping housewives above the promise of your own daughter?”  
  
“Because I, unlike your father, remember what it’s like to be your age!”  
  
Beomia sobbed, but even so she shook her hair back and declared, “I will not marry a man twice my age simply because my reputation has been wronged!”  
  
“Oh really, use your sense-”  
  
“I am using it! It is you who are not using yours – what mother would try to match their daughter with a balding middle-aged bore? I cannot marry him, mother, I would never love him, I doubt that I could even tolerate him...I’ll...I’ll be a spinster first!”  
  
“Don’t be foolish. If your father and I order you to marry Aiken, then you have no choice!”  
  
“ORDER?” shrieked Beomia. “I am not a dog or a horse, to do your bidding and obey your every whim! I will not marry Aiken, and you cannot make me!”  
  
Eadwyn stared at her daughter, opening and closing her mouth in shock. Beomia herself seemed slightly stunned; she paused for a moment, as though waiting for a reprimand. When none came, she let out another great sob, then turned and flounced out of the door.  
  
Wulf swallowed a lump of tears in his throat. He didn’t dare to speak.  
  
“Eadwyn, my love,” sighed Aldhelm, “I don’t think you handled that as best you might have.”


	10. The Truth

Beomia tore through the city, heedless of her surroundings or destination. She cried as she ran, heaving, hacking, noisy sobs that convulsed her body and made her hiccup, but she didn’t stop. Housewives tutted in disapproval as she passed, no doubt shocked at such a violent display of emotion in public – but what did she care? According to her mother, she had already incurred their ill opinion thanks to her night time trysts with Orvyn; what did it matter if she gave them something else to gossip about? Nothing mattered now, not if she were about to be given in marriage to Aiken. Given! As though she were a gift, or some kind of trophy! She couldn’t bear the indignity, the betrayal. Yes, her parents were betraying her.  _Order_ her to marry Aiken? By Eorl, she would rather die!  
  
A short distance from Meduseld, she tripped over her skirts and went sprawling in the mud. Her knee slapped sharply into a stone as she fell, but it was not for the searing pain that she lay and continued to cry. It was for Orvyn, for herself, for their shared past that was lost to her and for the future she now faced without him. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t even said goodbye. Her eyes burned and her lungs were sore and her head had begun to ache, but she made no attempt to staunch her sobs. They had almost become a reflex – her body no longer felt like her own, she had no control over the shuddering hiccups she was emitting...  
  
Dimly, she was aware of being lifted and carried. Various voices murmured in surprise. A few moments later there was warmth and the sweet sharp smell of smoke – she was inside.  
  
“Éothain? Is that you?”  
  
The voice quavered and cracked. An old woman.  
  
“Yes, Mother.”   
  
Another voice. Strong. Young. Male.  
  
“Whatever have you got there?”  
  
“A girl.”  
  
“A – a girl?”  
  
“Mid-city, or so I’d guess from her clothing – and by the sounds of things she’s hurt.”  
  
“The poor thing...what happened to her?”  
  
“I do not know.”  
  
Some creaking and shuffling, and then she was gently deposited into a nest of blankets. A careful hand brushed the hair from her face.   
  
“Do you recognise her?” the male voice asked.  
  
“I? No. You?”  
  
She noted that their voices were warm and held real concern.   
  
“Not at all. Can you hear us, child?”  
  
By way of response, she swallowed her next sob and opened her eyes. Her rescuer, like so many men of the Mark, was blue-eyed, fair-haired and tall. He was older than her – his beard, though short, was fully developed, and his eyes held a wisdom and sadness that the gaze of the young so often lacked. “Who are you?”  
  
“You need not be afraid,” he assured her. “My name is Éothain; I am a Captain of the Riddermark.”  
  
The name itself meant nothing to her, but a nervous thrill ran through her body at the mention of his rank. “C-Captain?” She swallowed again. “I’m sorry to be such trouble...”  
  
“It’s no trouble to me. Now, where are you hurt?”  
  
She noticed that she was lying on a couch and half-covered in a finely knit blanket. Suddenly she felt very foolish. “I’m not hurt,” she admitted, heat rising in her cheeks.  
  
Éothain frowned. “Then why such a performance upon the very steps of Meduseld?”  
  
The crimson stain crept higher. “My family wish me to marry.”  
  
He snorted. “If that is all then you should be grateful – I assume they have a man in mind?”  
  
“Yes...”  
  
“Is he a good man? Kind? Dependable?”  
  
“Yes...”  
  
“Then it is your duty to marry him, if that is what your family wishes!” he snapped, standing up. “The horsemen of the King have no time to waste on disobedient Middle City children. Go on – off home with you!”  
  
At his words, a fresh flood of tears swam in her eyes and rage burned inside her. “You don’t understand!” she screamed. “You know nothing of my family!”  
  
Part of her was aware that shouting at a Captain of the Mark may be unwise, but her anger defiantly crushed the notion. Eothain looked astounded at her gall.   
  
“You dare to speak to me so in my own home?”  
  
“You aren’t...you can’t...you don’t know...” she choked, incoherent.  
  
“Any father in this city deserves better from his daughter than behaviour that would shame a child of eight summers-”  
  
“Éothain, go away,” his mother interrupted, speaking for the first time since Beomia had opened her eyes.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Go away! Is it not plain to you that there is more here than a simple wish to remain unmarried?”  
  
Her son frowned, apparently puzzled.   
  
“No, I thought not,” she snorted. “Again, I repeat – go away.”  
  
Looking astonished, Eothain inclined his head and stepped aside.  
  
“ _Right_  away, Éothain,” sighed his mother, limping closer and crouching down beside Beomia. The old woman's blue eyes watched her son out of the room with a sharpness than belied her age, then she turned back to Beomia and took the girl’s hand in her own shrivelled claw. “Don’t mind my son; his feet have been too big for his stirrups ever since he was made Captain.”  
  
Beomia managed a watery smile.   
  
“Now, you just tell me what the matter is. Leave nothing out; I’m old, I know, but I may be able to help.”  
  
Haltingly, and with many tear-filled pauses, she told Éothain’s mother about herself and Orvyn, his death at Helm’s Deep, her aversion to Aiken, and even the gossip that had flown around the city regarding her maidenhead. This last part embarrassed her, but the old lady had said to leave nothing out.   
  
The old woman snorted as Beomia mentioned the word “dishonour.” “That’s a tale that’s not reached me, so you can put your mind to rest on one count, at least; your mother was exaggerating.”  
  
Golden relief surged through her. It did cross her mind that Éothain’s mother might be lying to make her feel better, but she was grateful nonetheless.  
  
“Now, your Orvyn – you say you don’t know what happened to him?”  
  
“I know that he was killed at Helm’s Deep, but no more than that. Nobody would tell me anything,” she added bitterly.  
  
“There may be a good reason for that.” The old woman sucked the remnants of her teeth. “If you wish, my Éothain could find out for you, but you may not like what you learn.”  
  
“No. I want to know.” The steadiness of her voice surprised her. “In a way, I think I need to.”  
  
“You could be right. The mind is a peculiar thing.” The old lady nodded. “Alright. I’ll ask him. Éothain!”  
  
The young Captain emerged from the next room, and his mother tutted.   
  
“I barely had to raise my voice; how much have you overheard?”  
  
“Nothing!” He scowled. “I am no common sneak thief, to go creeping and listening at doors!”  
  
“Hmm. Very well. Did you ever know – or know of – a young man by the name of Orvyn?”  
  
“Orvyn?” He glanced at Beomia. “There was a man in my company called Orvyn, but...”  
  
“Yes?” the girl said eagerly.  
  
He paused, doubt playing in his eyes. “Perhaps we are not thinking of the same man.”  
  
“It isn’t a common name,” Beomia pressed on. “Did he have curls? And was he always smiling?”  
  
Éothain’s silence and sober face answered for him.  
  
“Perhaps, son, you had better walk her home,” his mother suggested, creaking to her feet. “Dinner will be ready when you’re back.”   
  
Beomia too stood up. “Thank you for-”  
  
“Not at all, not at all. By the look on my son’s face you’ll probably wish you hadn’t told me a thing.”  
  
Uneasiness settled like dust on her gut. Eothain did nothing to calm her, sighing as Beomia took her leave of his mother and walking beside her in silence past the steps of Meduseld.  
  
“It may be easier if I simply told you that he died a good death,” he said abruptly.  
  
Above them, thunder grumbled, too lazy to make a real effort.  
  
“That’s what his brother told me. I want the truth.”  
  
“It is the truth – if death in battle can ever be good.” He glanced at her. “Are you sure?”  
  
She wasn’t, but she nodded anyway.  
  
“Very well. There is a man in my company by the name of Ulfric – perhaps your Orvyn mentioned him to you?”  
  
She shook her head and wondered what relevance this held.  
  
“Ulfric has not had an easy life. He was orphaned at a young age; his wife brought him happiness for a while, but she had only recently given birth to their third child when she fell sick. She fought the illness for a long time, but eventually succumbed. Ulfric was left to bring up three young children...this was only a few days short of King Elessar’s arrival in Edoras,” he added, glancing at her sideways before continuing. “At the battle of Helm’s Deep, Ulfric was struck on the head by flying debris during the pullback to the Keep. He fell, unconscious. I believed him lost. Orc fodder.”   
  
Beomia noticed he was keeping his voice at the carefully neutral tone she used when trying not to lose her temper or burst into tears.  
  
“Orvyn...” Éothain halted and began to examine his hands, as if they might be dirty. “Orvyn – against my orders – ran back to Ulfric and stood over his body, defending him. He kept off the Orcs as more of my men ran in to drag Ulfric away.”  
  
“And – and the Orcs killed him?”  
  
“Yes.” The word fell between them, heavier than the thunder that growled in the sky. “Orvyn knew Ulfric had lost his wife; he gave his own life so that the children were not orphaned.  
  
Warm pride swelled in her belly and heart – but the illusion of comfort was swiftly shattered by a prickle of doubt. He may have given up his life to ensure the safe future of Ulfric’s children – but what of his own future with her? Was that any less important? Had it mattered so little to him?  
  
To distract herself from these uncomfortable questions, she asked instead, “What happened to Ulfric?”  
  
“He recovered completely. All three children are sound, safe and healthy with him and his new wife.”  
  
New wife. He had remarried. For a moment she wasn’t sure why this fact bothered her – and then she remembered. It was what her parents wanted her to do.  
  
Except she hadn’t even been married in the first place.  
  
A peculiar sensation nestled its way into her stomach. She did her best to be glad for Ulfric and the children, but could feel only the poison of jealousy. “Why was I never told any of this?”  
  
“What was Orvyn to you?” Éothain countered. “Cousin? Lover? Friend?”  
  
“My betrothed.”  
  
He nodded slowly. “In that case it would have been his family’s duty to inform you of the details. That they chose not to does not surprise me.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Why?” he repeated, lifting his eyebrows. “You are angry, are you not?”  
  
“No!” she lied.  
  
“Yes, you are. To you, it seems that Orvyn threw away his future with you – perhaps even that he didn’t care.”  
  
“That isn’t true!” she insisted – but her reddening face gave away her discomfort that he had guessed her thoughts so closely.  
  
“You should be proud of him.”  
  
“I know,” she snapped.  
  
“You cannot understand,” he said, evidently beginning to lose patience. “The world we men of the Mark inhabit is nothing like your world of sewing and cooking and simple right and wrong...in war, there are things worth dying for!”  
  
Her thoughts flew back to that winter’s evening when Orvyn’s face had glowed golden in the firelight, and he had told her about almost riding into the bog.  
  
_“You could have drowned!”  
  
“I could have, but I didn’t.”  
  
No, Orvyn, you didn’t...you just waited to get yourself mauled by a pack of Orcs, and left me to get married off to a man I cannot bear while your comrade gets to spend the rest of his life with his family. Is that what you wanted? Was that worth dying for? Really?_  
  
Something prodded its way to the surface of her mind. “They wouldn’t let me see his body.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Really, I don’t think –”  
  
“You promised me the truth!”  
  
“I promised no such thing!” he retorted. “Some things it is in your best interest not to know.”  
  
“Please?”  
  
“Believe me, it is better that you remain ignorant.”  
  
“I don’t want to be ignorant!” she cried, tears choking her once again. “I’ve been ignorant for almost a year and it’s made my life a misery!”  
  
“It would be better –”  
  
“I know what you’re going to say, and it would  _not_  be better!” she fumed. “I am no child; I do not wish to have knowledge, whether it is painful or not, concealed from me; I have a right to learn what became of the man I loved!”  
  
Éothain stopped again. For a moment she thought he was going to be angry, but when he spoke his voice was gentle. “There really is no dissuading you, is there?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Very well, then. I will tell you – but this will not be easy for you to hear.” He turned to face her, laid a careful hand on her shoulder and looked her straight in the eye. “Orvyn was beheaded and...disfigured by the Orcs. I doubt he would have wanted you to see him in such a state.”  
  
“His brother said that too.” Suddenly she felt hollow, as though witchcraft had removed her bones. “Thank you for telling me.”  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
“No. But I will be, I think. I’m glad I know.”  
  
He nodded, squeezed her shoulder and walked on. She followed him through the rain, numb to its chilling drive.  
  
*  
  
Once she had apologised to her parents (and carefully sidestepped the subject of Aiken), Beomia and Wulf hurried off to the stables, where they curled up in the straw with Annis and Fleetfoot. Wulf chattered on about his day and Beomia listened to the raindrops spattering on the ground. The sound was almost rhythmic, like a chant.  
  
“I’ve been thinking,” announced Wulf.  
  
“Oh, save us,” she muttered.  
  
Wulf ignored her. “I won’t let them marry you to Aiken; it’s as simple as that. So don’t worry.”  
  
She managed a smile, even though her insides had clenched. “You can hardly stop them if that’s what they want.”  
  
He lifted his chin, defiance glittering in his eyes. “Yes, I can.”  
  
“I’d have thought you’d want rid of me – then you’ll have our bedroom all to yourself.”  
  
“But – but I’d miss you,” he mumbled.  
  
“Oh, Wulf,” she sighed, reaching out to him. He clambered across the straw and snuggled into her chest. “We’d still see each other.”  
  
“But it wouldn’t be the same!”  
  
“No, it wouldn’t,” she agreed, wondering if she’d been trying to comfort herself or her brother.  
  
_Comfort myself? I thought I’d decided I wasn’t getting married!_  
  
She realised then that she had at least partly resigned herself to it the moment she had heard what Orvyn had done. No – it had been when Éothain had told her about Ulfric’s remarriage. Others were capable of it, and it was expected of her too. Could she afford to bring disgrace on herself and her family by refusing Aiken?  
  
Annis snorted, then picked her way across to them and started nibbling Beomia’s hair.   
  
“Stupid horse,” she complained, but didn’t push her away.  
  
“She likes you,” sniffed Wulf. “More than she likes me.”  
  
“That’s not true –”  
  
“If you want, you can have her.”  
  
“Oh, Wulf,” she said again, squeezing him tight. “There’s not much point, is there? I won’t have much time for riding once I’m married.”  
  
“But you’re not getting married! I said so!” he wailed.  
  
“Hush. You’re being silly.” She cradled him gently, winding her fingers through the tousles in his hair. “You were happy enough to let me marry Orvyn.”  
  
“I liked Orvyn. He made you smile. I don’t think Aiken will.” His voice began to wobble. “It’s not fair; when Orvyn died, you were miserable for months and months, and you’ve only just started being happy again, and now you might have to marry Aiken, and he’s so ugly and boring and old...”  
  
Annis nudged her cheek. Beomia reached up and rubbed the foal’s muzzle, trying to contemplate the idea of a future with Aiken. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. She would, after all, be comfortable, and that was more than could be said for many wives in the city, some of whom were married at a much younger age than her. It would make her parents happy. The alternative – spinsterhood, for she was too old to expect many more offers – was shameful for an able-bodied young woman like herself. All her life she’d have to take charity from her family and live with the pitying stares of others, begging from them whilst listening to their furtive whispers that her headstrong nature had cost her her future happiness.  
  
It was no alternative at all, really. Perhaps she had no choice.  
  
More of Orvyn’s words came back to her from the memory of that night she held so dear.  
  
_“There’s no sense in not doing something you love, or something that needs to be done, just because you’re afraid of what might happen.”_  
  
Well, she was certainly afraid. She wouldn’t love being married to Aiken, would probably not even like it, but was it something that needed to be done?  
  
_Orvyn didn’t even think you were worth living for,_  a cruel voice reminded her.  
  
In that instant, she decided. There could be no doubt that Aiken was courting her with a view to marriage. When he asked for her hand, she would say yes.  
  
Eventually she slept, curled up against her brother and the two horses. When she awoke in the middle of the night she remembered little of her dreams, save only that they had been strange - very strange indeed...


	11. A Visitor

Her mother was pleased with the decision about Aiken – as, of course, she had known she would be. Her father looked troubled. Wulf cried.  
  
“If you’ve nothing sensible to say, Wulf, you can take yourself off for a walk,” Eadwyn told him, shooing him towards the door. “You ought to be happy for your sister!”  
  
He stayed away all morning and afternoon. Beomia couldn’t blame him – Aiken appeared as soon as it could be considered a reasonable hour for callers, and was quick to accept Eadwyn’s invitation to dinner.  
  
“With pleasure, Mistress,” he smiled.  
  
“Wonderful,” Eadwyn beamed. “Now, why don’t you sit there and talk to Beomia while I chop the vegetables?”  
  
She indicated a seat by the fire, and Aiken sat himself upon the stool Orvyn had so often occupied. Angry tears formed in Beomia’s chest, but she choked them down and forced herself to be civil.  
  
“The weather is most unpleasant today,” she commented. Even to herself her voice sounded hollow.  
  
“Yes,” he agreed.  
  
Silence.  
  
Beomia stared at him. The firelight danced on his bald head.  
  
 _Could I truly spend the rest of my life with a man who looks like an egg?_  
  
She buried this thought. Aiken was not young or handsome, like Orvyn, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was a bad man. On the contrary, she had heard nothing but good of his character – perhaps she simply hadn’t been giving him a fair chance all these months.  
  
They’d been quiet for too long, she realised. “I hope you are fond of meat stew, sir?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
 _Oh, Eorl, it's as I feared. What a dullard._  
  
He leaned forwards, his large eyes wide, and licked his lips. For an instant hope rose in her. “Are you?” he asked.  
  
Her brief optimism was quenched.  
  
“Beomia, why don’t you take Aiken up to the stables?” intervened Eadwyn, hacking at potatoes. “Our mare gave birth to a rather unusual foal last year, Aiken – perhaps you heard?”  
  
“No. I don’t think so.”  
  
He made no further enquiries as to why the foal was so unusual. With a great effort, Beomia restrained herself from rolling her eyes and elaborated. “She has blue eyes – peculiar, is it not?”  
  
“Yes. Very.”  
  
Aldhelm, who had been smoking his pipe in the corner, shifted. Beomia caught his gaze and frowned, trying to fathom the expression on his face.  
  
“Go on, the two of you,” sighed Eadwyn, clearly becoming exasperated. “Otherwise the horses will have been put out to plain, and then you’ll be looking for that foal until Sun-welcoming.”  
  
Aiken creaked to his feet –  _creaked,_  thought Beomia in horror,  _he’s almost as old as Father!_  – and offered her his arm. When she took it she felt nothing, not the thrill of delight that used to make her shiver every time she touched Orvyn, nor even the warm glow of affection she associated with her father and Wulf. Dismay welled in her gut.  
  
 _This isn’t going to work._  
  
As she allowed her would-be suitor to lead her out of the door, she distinctly heard her father say to Eadwyn, “Are you ready to admit that this isn’t a good idea?”  
  
“Don’t be silly, love; they just need a little more time together...”  
  
 _Perhaps she’s right. And anyway, don’t forget, you’ve made your mind up. You’ve decided to encourage him. You brought this on yourself._  
  
The rain still dripped down from the scowling clouds, and the streets of Edoras swam with mud.


	12. Brighter Shade

_21st January – in city. White foal (Annis) escaped. Chased it. Also present: Wulf, Aldhelm. Later – in stables. Discussed marriage (who is Aiken?). Also present: Wulf, Annis, Fleetfoot.  
  
22nd January – in stables, showing Annis to Aiken. Aiken = old. Are they engaged now?  
  
4th February – in stables. Crying. Also present: Annis.  
  
10th February – in stables. Crying. Also present: Annis, Wulf.  
  
13th February – in stables. Crying. Also present: Annis._  
  
Anna shifted on the bench so the sun was warming the back of her head but wasn’t glaring off the notebook’s pages. Every entry had been the same for months on end. She sighed, turned the page, and added what she’d seen last night.  
  
 _17th April – in stables. Crying. Also present: Annis._  
  
Across the playground, a Year Seven girl shrieked in indignation. Anna shielded her eyes against the sunlight that was dyeing their playground a brighter shade of grey, then stuffed the dream diary into her satchel. It was getting busier now – she didn’t want anyone coming over and questioning what she was doing. Instead she pulled out her Physics textbook and attempted to revise.  
  
 _This isn’t going to happen,_  she thought to herself after five minutes of watching complex formulae squiggle and muddle around on the page. Her mind was filled with thoughts of the unknown green country, the girl whose eyes she so often saw through when she fell asleep, and the man she had resolved to marry. Was it for him that she cried so often? Her brother hadn’t seemed keen on the idea of their union...but, frustratingly, she hadn’t seen Aiken and Beomia together for months. She had no idea whether their seemingly reluctant relationship had deepened into affection, or whether her connection with the older man was making her miserable. Perhaps they were already married, and he was treating her cruelly. Maybe that was the reason behind the tears. If only she could see Beomia’s life outside the stable then she might have a better idea...  
  
She shook her head slightly. Even if she knew the truth, what good would it do? She could change nothing. All she could do was wait for the dreams, and watch and record them when they came.  
  
If it was frustrating for her, though, it was ten times worse for Derry, who could only get information second-hand through her. As soon as they’d made the connection and resolved that neither of them were crazy, all thoughts of Maths projects had been forgotten in a whirlwind of brainstorming and comparing notes. All that week they’d spent every spare moment discussing what might be behind the link – prophetic dreams, a subconscious psychic connection between the two of them, long-buried memories of a past life – causing Mr. Proust to rate their presentation as “disappointing.” Not that either of them cared. Suddenly, despite the presence of GCSEs hulking on the horizon, exams seemed to have lost all their importance.  
  
The past lives theory was Anna’s personal favourite. Derry’s memories had been triggered when he’d been shot; her dreams had begun shortly after her sister had died. It made sense that a traumatic event might unearth thoughts and images secreted in some deep and hidden part of the brain – although Derry did not yet know about Izzy, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell him. Besides, he had enough problems of his own, such as dealing with the consequences of his injury, catching up with his school work and negotiating his fragile relationship with his mother.   
  
Louisa and Nat, who didn’t know about any of this, were keen for her to come clean.  
  
“You can’t keep him away from your house forever,” they kept reminding her, “and how are you going to explain to your parents that one of your best friends doesn’t know about your sister?”  
  
 _Best friends._  She couldn’t help it, that phrase made her smile – because a best friend was exactly what Derry had become. She felt closer to him after a few short months than she’d ever felt to Louisa or Nat. A small nagging voice reminded her that since she was the only one who could provide any link to Beomia and the mysterious land she came from, the friendship on his part might be based on convenience, but she didn’t think so. There was nothing forced about the way he’d phoned her and cried after a particularly bad argument with his mother last week, or the way he’d fallen asleep on her shoulder last night when they’d stayed up late studying.  
  
Hastily she changed the track of her thoughts.  
  
The only common thread to her dreams – apart from Beomia, of course – was the presence of Annis the white foal. It puzzled her. Derry remembered no such horse and insisted that it couldn’t be important, but she wasn’t so sure. Why else would it be there every single time? She had decided a while ago that it must have been born shortly after Derry (or Orvyn, as he was in that world) had died, which in her mind increased its significance all the more. Besides, there was that inexplicable feeling she sometimes got when she was hovering on the edge of wakefulness, that persistent tug in her stomach that told her she’d seen the little creature somewhere before...  
  
She knew she hadn’t, though. She couldn’t have. She’d have remembered a blue-eyed foal.  
  
Across the playground, Louisa was coming in through the gate, contemptuously eyeing the Year Nine boys leapfrogging over the wall. Anna abandoned all pretence at revision and snapped the textbook shut.  
  
“So how was last night?” her friend asked without preamble as she arranged herself on the bench.  
  
“It was good.”  
  
“Good?” repeated Louisa, unimpressed. “I texted you at eleven o’clock, you were still at his house, and all you can say about it is ‘good’?”  
  
“Sorry-”  
  
“What did you guys get up to? What did you talk about? Has he declared his undying love yet?”  
  
Anna snorted. “Louisa, that’s not going to happen. We’re friends. That’s it.” She decided to omit the detail of Derry falling asleep on her shoulder. For now, she thought, she’d rather keep that private.  
  
“Bull.” Louisa stretched out, letting the sun soak every limb. “Anyway, did you tell him?”  
  
Anna chose not to reply, and developed a sudden interest in the fly crawling along the bench’s armrest.  
  
Louisa narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t. Did you?”  
  
“No.”  
  
She groaned dramatically. “Anna, I can’t believe you haven’t told him yet!”  
  
“Oh, stop it. I’ll tell him when the time’s right – I don’t want him thinking I’m playing for sympathy or anything...”  
  
“Playing for sympathy?” Louisa folded her arms. “You’ve been hanging out with him for...what, three months now? And you still haven’t told him about Izzy. Don’t you think that’s a bit weird?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Well, I do.”  
  
“Louisa,” snapped Anna, “believe it or not, it isn’t the kind of thing that comes up in casual conversation. ‘Hey Derry, just so you know, I had an older sister who was killed in a riding accident last year.’ I don’t think so, somehow – do you?”  
  
“Hmm. No, I suppose not.” Her friend leaned towards her, eyes suddenly sparkling. “Hey, what  _do_  you guys talk about?”  
  
“I don’t know. Stuff. Books. Why?”  
  
Louisa’s eyebrows almost disappeared into her hairline. “ _Books?_ ”  
  
“Well...yeah.”  
  
She shook her head. “Have me and Nat taught you nothing? A guy like that and all you can think to talk to him about is  _books?_ ”  
  
“What’s wrong with books?”  
  
“Oh, I give up. You’re a lost cause.”  
  
Anna shrugged. “Anyway, what do you mean, ‘a guy like that’?”  
  
“You know. A cute guy.”  
  
“He’s not that cute...”  
  
“Who isn’t cute?” asked Nat, plonking herself on Anna’s other side, then added a belated, “Morning.”  
  
“Morning,” replied Anna.  
  
“Derry,” said Louisa simultaneously.  
  
Nat sighed. “Jeez, give me a break! He’s gorgeous.”  
  
“I know you think so, but he’s not my type,” Anna said. “Anyway, he’s-”  
  
“ ‘Your friend,’ ” Nat finished. “We know. It just seems slightly unfair that the only one of us he has eyes for is also the only one who isn’t the least bit interested!”  
  
“So she tells us,” smirked Louisa.  
  
“Oi!” Anna swatted her friend with the Physics book she still held in her lap.  
  
“What’s the phrase?” giggled Louisa, ducking. “ ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much’?”  
  
“You’re as bad as she is, quoting Dickens at us,” Nat complained.  
  
“Actually I think it’s Shakespeare...”  
  
“ _Hamlet_ ,” said Anna automatically. “And the ‘methinks’ comes afterwards.”  
  
“Whatever. We’ve left the point.” Louisa narrowed her eyes. “Do you like him?”  
  
“No!”  
  
“Leave her alone,” said Nat. “If she says she doesn’t, she doesn’t; all it means is that you and I are still in with a shout.”  
  
“Dream on. Anyway, Anna, whether you like him or not, you said it yourself - he’s your friend. He has a right to know.”  
  
“Know what?” asked Nat, looking confused.  
  
“About Izzy.”  
  
“Oh...”  
  
“And like I said, I’ll tell him when I’m ready,” Anna responded, folding her arms.  
  
“The longer you leave it, the harder it’ll be.”  
  
“Drop it.”  
  
Louisa pursed her lips. “Anna...you do realise that not telling Derry doesn’t make it any less real? It doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened, whatever you might want to-”  
  
“Oddly enough, Louisa, I’d worked that out,” snarled Anna. “Trust me, you notice when your sister dies!”  
  
An injured look flitted across Louisa’s face for an instant, but she smoothed it across and reached out to Anna. “I know,” she murmured, taking her hand. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s OK.” Anna pulled her hand away and began to plait the strand of hair that had escaped from her ponytail. “Leave it for now, though, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. Sure.”  
  
“Quick, look happy,” hissed Nat, her eyes suddenly darting to the gate. “And change the subject!”  
  
Anna followed her gaze and saw that Derry was making his way towards them across the now-crowded playground. He grinned and waved; her spirits lifted a little as she waved back.  
  
“Morning, guys,” he said, letting his satchel drop to the floor as he hopped onto the armrest next to Louisa. He blew upwards, sending his long hair flying into disarray. “Hot, isn’t it?” Then his eyes fell on Anna and a crease appeared in his forehead; he didn’t wait for them to reply. “Anna, are you OK?”  
  
“I didn’t sleep too well,” she answered – perfectly truthfully.  
  
“Ah.” He held her eyes for a moment. He understood.  
  
The bell echoed out from the concrete monstrosity behind them, and all four moaned loudly.  
  
“Did you do the English homework?” Louisa yelled to Derry as a hoard of Year Eights charged past them.  
  
“Yep. And no, you can’t copy it; I don’t want another afternoon in detention, thanks.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to ask,” she pouted.  
  
“No? Don’t tell me you actually did it?”  
  
“Well...not exactly...there’s just this one bit...”  
  
Louisa wheedled all the way to the classroom and all through registration while Derry stood his ground; a few minutes later as they slipped into their places for Maths, he gave Anna a wry grin. “Persuasive, isn’t she?”  
  
“Did you give it to her?” she asked, shifting herself so she wasn’t directly in the path of the sunlight that poured through the window.  
  
“No, but another few minutes and I might have done, just to shut her up.”  
  
“Stop the chatter, please,” called Mr. Proust.   
  
Derry pulled a face and dropped his voice to a whisper. “So – last night.”  
  
“I knew this was coming.” She finished arranging her exercise books, then reached back into her satchel and pulled out her dream diary. “Here.”  
  
She tried to concentrate on her work, but even out of the corner of her eye she could see his frown as he read. “Always the stables,” he muttered. “I don’t remember her ever being in the stables...”  
  
“She’s not  _always_  there,” she found herself saying.  
  
“She is most of the time. Along with that bloody foal you’re always on about.” He bit his lip. “Did she mention me?”  
  
“No. Not this time.” Suddenly she felt irritated, like an itch that had been scratched once too often. “You died, Derry. We worked that out. You aren’t in that world any more, wherever and whatever it is.”  
  
“I know, but –”  
  
“And anyway, you weren’t you. You were Orvyn.”  
  
“I’m just curious! All I want to know is why we both have this weird link to that time and place.”  
  
“I know.” Suddenly she felt guilty. After all, his questions never usually bothered her – they were natural, in a way. All he had was a memory of his other life. She, on the other hand, got to go back and visit it every few nights. “I still like our past lives theory.”  
  
“Weird, though – that we knew each other then and we know each other now. What are the odds?”  
  
“It must be fate,” she grinned mischievously, letting her hair fall across her face.  
  
He raised his eyebrows. “Anna Murphy, are you being sarcastic with me?”  
  
“Maybe,” she smiled. “I’d open my books if I were you; Mr. Proust will be getting suspicious soon.”  
  
“Yes, Miss Perfect.” He flipped his textbook open at a random page. “Happy?”  
  
“Nope. We’re on simultaneous equations, not metric-imperial conversion.”  
  
“Correct, Miss Murphy,” assented Mr. Proust, making them both jump. “Mr. Allerton, kindly stop distracting her.”  
  
“Never mind eyes in the back of his head,” muttered Derry, “he’s got ears in the back of his...I don’t know...”  
  
“Shirt?” suggested Anna. A worrying thought had occurred to her. “What else do you think he heard?”  
  
“Nothing important. His brain’s only wired to pick up on Maths-related stuff.”  
  
“Mr. Allerton, if I have to tell you again...”  
  
“Sorry, sir.”  
  
Mr. Proust turned to face them. “I know it’s abnormally hot for the time of year, and I understand that you’re all excited to see the sun, but might I remind you that your GCSEs are only a month away –”  
  
At the mention of exams, the customary groan rose from the students. Mr. Proust raised his hands in a pacifying gesture.  
  
“All I ask is that you pay a little more attention – all of you. It may feel like summer has arrived early, but a suntan won’t do you any good when you find in the middle of your first paper that you can’t remember which side of a right-angled triangle is the hypoteneuse. Concentrate, please – even though it’s hot.”  
  
“Too hot to be in school,” sighed Derry – then an impish glint appeared in his eye. He watched Mr. Proust until he had gone back to marking homework, then ripped a scrap of paper out of his exercise book and began to scribble on it.  
  
Anna was in the middle of a particularly hideous equation when Derry slid a note across to her. Shaking her head in mock-disapproval, she unfolded it.  
  
 _What do you say we get out of here and go enjoy the sun?_  
  
Her head shot up, her heart hammering. “Seriously?” she whispered.  
  
He nodded.  
  
She eyed him uncertainly. Why now? What had put the idea in his head? She didn’t dare ask, in case Mr. Proust picked up on their conversation.  
  
Derry lifted an eyebrow and curled one corner of his mouth. Without warning, her stomach flipped.  
  
She scrawled her answer.  
  
 _Yes._  
  
*  
  
“You do realise we’re going to be in detention, like, forever?” Anna warned as they sauntered across the field behind the hockey pitch. The midday sun glared down through her white blouse and made her skin prickle, but this was nothing to the discomfort of what felt like a pond full of frogs hopping about in her stomach.  
  
 _Casual,_  she reminded herself. Her legs longed to take off at a run.  _Keep it causal._  
  
“Oh, relax,” laughed Derry. “Detention’s not going to happen. Everyone thinks we’ve gone looking for that tennis ball I chucked over the hedge; give it five minutes and they’ll forget we ever went anywhere. Then all we do is turn up tomorrow morning with forged absence notes for this afternoon, and there’s nothing anyone can do. It’ll be fine.”  
  
“Easy for you to say.” She glanced nervously over her shoulder. “How many times did you do this at your old school?”  
  
“I’ve lost count,” he said airily. “I promise you it’ll be OK.” He vaulted the fence and landed on the pavement on the other side, then gave her his hand to help her clamber over. “So where are we going?”  
  
“What do you mean?” She tugged at her skirt, which had caught on a splinter in the dry wood.  
  
“Well, we can hardly turn up at my place when we’re meant to be in school...oh, that’s a point.” He whipped out his mobile. “Can I text my Mum and say I’m having dinner at your house? Otherwise she’ll come to pick me up as usual, and...”  
  
“Busted.” Anna laughed. “Yeah, sure – I’ll cover for you.”  
  
“You know,” he said, thumb flying over the keypad, “we could at least make that part true. I mean, I could come to your house for dinner – then if Mum demanded a contact number, I’d be exactly where I’d said I would be.”  
  
“Mm,” said Anna, suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the bitter rising smell of the concrete in the heat.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I told you,” she said, averting her eyes, “my parents are weird about boyfriends.”  
  
“But I’m not your boyfriend. I’m your friend. And anyway, you’re sixteen – don’t they think you can make your own mind up about that sort of thing?” He paused, as if thinking, weighing her up. “Come on,” he continued eventually, “I’ve never been to your house.”  
  
“Jesus, Derry, you sound like a primary school kid!” she snapped.   
  
He caught at her wrist and turned her around to face him. “Anna. What’s wrong?”  
  
Unnerved by his perception, she looked into his dark-rimmed eyes and saw nothing but care and concern staring back. “Nothing,” she lied.  
  
“Rubbish.” He let go of her and raised his hand to her face, then hesitated and pulled it back.  
  
Something seemed to spin inside Anna’s chest.  
  
“Talk to me?” he asked softly.  
  
 _Oh, Derry. If only it were that easy._  Her eyes began to burn and she looked away.  
  
“I saw you fighting with Louisa earlier,” he pressed on. “Is that it?”  
  
“No. Well – sort of.” At that moment she realised three things – firstly, that she really did want to tell him about Izzy, secondly, that there were other people wandering along the street, and thirdly, that she and Derry were attracting some curious glances, since they were standing almost nose-to-nose and still wearing school uniform. She took a step back from him and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Can we go for a walk?”  
  
“Sure.”   
  
“Park?”  
  
“I’ll follow your lead.”  
  
She managed a smile and set off up the road, brushing at her eyes when she decided he was no longer watching.  
  
They wandered aimlessly through the park, school ties tucked safely into pockets to avoid awkward questions. Twice Anna tried to bring up the subject of her sister, and twice changed the direction of the conversation at the last moment, unwilling to break the spell – for the afternoon had a near-magical cast to it. The summery weather and the adrenaline of being on the run from school combined in a heady cocktail that made every breath of air feel intoxicating and painted every mundane shade they encountered a little brighter than nature should allow. Trees with emerald leaves smiled down at them and sighed in gratitude at the slightest kiss of the wind; the underfoot crunch of gravel on the paths sounded cheerful and friendly; even the sky looked different.  
  
“Like it’s been whisked,” Anna giggled.  
  
“What?” Derry’s face was blank.  
  
“Don’t you think so? When it’s bright blue like that, with only a few stray swirls of cloud, don’t you think it’s like someone’s taken a whisk to it?”  
  
Derry shook his head. “You say the weirdest things.”  
  
Anna took aim with her satchel, but he grinned and ducked just in time.  
  
The park was almost deserted, their own little world in which to do as they pleased, immune to the dulling grey touch of death and grief. She couldn’t bring Izzy here.  
  
After a while, the grass sloped lazily away and melted into a smooth body of water, too big to be called a pond yet too small to merit the title of “lake.” Staring at the light shivering on its surface, Anna realised just how hot she was; the neckline of her blouse was damp and uncomfortable, and the sun was scowling fiercely down on her head.  
  
Glancing over at Derry, she saw that he’d had exactly the same idea. A crooked grin spread across his face.  
  
“Race you to the edge?”  
  
“You’re on.”  
  
She bent to pull off her shoes but he was already away, bolting across the grass.  
  
“Hey, not fair!” she called after him, fiddling with her laces. “Come back!”  
  
She followed on as soon as she had wriggled free of the restrictive school footwear, but she knew she hadn’t a hope of catching him – until he tripped and skidded the last ten feet clean into the water.  
  
“Derry!”  
  
She sprinted to his side, panic rising in her throat, but he was lying in the shallows and laughing.  
  
“Are you OK?” she asked, anxious.  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“Idiot.” She paddled out to him, torn between irritation and amusement. “Serves you right for cheating.”  
  
“I didn’t cheat,” he protested, sitting up. "Who said we were taking off shoes?”  
  
“Since we were heading for the water, I’d have thought it’d be common sense.”  
  
“Anna?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Shut up. You sound like my mother.”  
  
She aimed a playful kick in his direction, but he was too quick for her – he seized her flailing leg and tugged, sending her tumbling down beside him. She shrieked as the resulting splash soaked her skirt and hair.  
  
“What was that for?” she spluttered, spitting out the bitter-tasting water.  
  
“Couldn’t resist,” he chuckled. “You looked so smug and superior up there.”  
  
“I’ll give you smug and superior.” She shook her head and was rewarded with a nasty popping sound uncomfortably close to her brain. “I’ve got water in my ears now,” she complained.  
  
“Sorry,” he said, looking contrite.  
  
“Idiot,” she repeated with a little more venom.  
  
“I said I was sorry!”   
  
His eyes were wide and injured. She relented. “I suppose so. Time to dry off, I think – I’ve been sitting on pondweed for long enough.”   
  
“Agreed.” He accepted the hand up she offered him and got to his feet. “We’ll do a bit of sunbathing and you can tell me what’s bugging you.”  
  
The beauty of the afternoon dimmed as worry knotted her stomach. “It’s nothing...”  
  
“Don’t lie to me, Anna Murphy!” he warned, eyes glinting. “I know you too well for that now.”  
  
They sprawled out in the grass by the water’s edge. Anna stretched, trying to ease the knot inside her, but it tightened obstinately and she sat up again, looking over at Derry. He lay with his eyes closed and his hands behind his head; his hair flopped to one side and left his scar uncovered. She shifted her gaze. For some reason she couldn’t bear to look at it.  
  
“Come on, spit it out,” Derry ordered, cracking one eye open.  
  
“OK, OK.” There really was no getting out of it now. The magic of their walk through the park and their dunk in the lake had been nothing more than a temporary respite – but as she resigned herself to finally telling him the truth, her feelings from earlier surged back and buoyed her. She wanted to tell him. First, though, she had some explaining to do. “I should probably have told you this earlier,” she began hesitantly. “It might not have been so hard if I had.”  
  
“Hold on.” He sat up. “Is this serious?”  
  
“Yeah. Fairly.”  
  
He nodded slowly. “I thought it was just a squabble with one of your girlfriends.” He shuffled over and put an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry for going on about it – you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”  
  
For a moment she was tempted to take him up on the offer, but something in her rebelled. She was surprisingly calm – almost as if her mind had decided that now was the time to explain, and it was going to make the job easier by not letting her cry. She took a deep breath. The air cooled her throat and unravelled the knot in her innards. “No, I’ll tell you – if you don’t mind.”  
  
“Of course not!”  
  
“It’s just...it’s not that I didn’t trust you before, or anything like that,” she gabbled. “I would have told you before, only...oh God, I don’t know how to say this!”  
  
Derry said nothing, but rested his chin on top of her head. Anna’s heart bounded, and something clicked in her mind.  
  
 _Oh no. Not this. Not on top of everything else._  
  
“You know...you know when something goes wrong in your life?” she ventured. Her voice shook.  
  
“Only too well.”  
  
She smiled humourlessly.  _Of course he does._  “It gets everywhere and infects everything, right?”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Except there’s one part that, for whatever reason, it doesn’t affect. It’s like that part of your life is clean and the rest is dirty, and you don’t want the dirty parts rubbing off on the clean.”  
  
“I never thought of it like that, but yeah, I know what you mean.”  
  
“Well...that’s why i didn’t tell you. Everybody else knew, and you had no idea, so you didn’t treat me differently...it was such a relief...”  
  
“I can understand that. Anna, whatever this is, I’m not going to be angry that you didn’t tell me.”  
  
“OK.” She took another breath. “Right. Well.” The words were stuck in her throat; she prevaricated again. “You know my sister?”  
  
“I’ve never met her, but I know you have one."  
  
 _Except I don’t._  
  
“Anna?”  
  
“She – she died.”  
  
For the briefest of seconds she felt him tense against her and wished she hadn’t been so blunt – but she didn’t know what else to add. The details didn’t matter because it all came down to the same thing.  
  
Izzy was dead.  
  
It was like something had collapsed within her – her last prop, her last leaning post had vanished, and the tears were pouring out of her as the wound reopened. Derry’s ignorance had been the thin scab that had stemmed the blood flow for a while, but now that its puny protection had gone there was nothing left to cling to. There was no knot in her stomach anymore, there was nothing there at all, nothing but a great agonising emptiness, and everything hurt so much that she wanted to tumble into that emptiness and die too...  
  
And then his arms were wrapped tightly around her, one around her shoulders and one around her waist, and he was stroking her hair. She leaned into him and the edge of the pain began to dull. Somehow her face had ended up buried in his neck. He smelt nice. She breathed in the soothing scent of aftershave and warm skin, and the wet natural smell from the pond water still clinging to his hair. The memory lightened something in her mind, and the despair lessened.  
  
“Ssh. You’re OK,” she heard him whisper. “Don’t cry. I’m here. You’re OK.”  
  
 _No, I’m not,_  she thought – but at the same time she knew she would be. Not now, but eventually. When she finally released Derry and rubbed the salty streaks from her face, the wound no longer felt rancid, as it had before. It was still there and it still hurt, but it was clean, as if her tears and her friend’s presence had lanced the poison away.  
  
“Alright?” asked Derry, stroking her cheek.  
  
She nodded. “Sorry.”  
  
“What for?”  
  
“I shouldn’t...I don’t know...you’ve got problems of your own.” She swallowed. “Thanks.”  
  
“Any time.”  
  
He trailed his hand across her cheek and over her neck, then down her arm. Her skin tingled under his touch as he took hold of her hand, and a pleasant kind of ache formed in her lower stomach.  
  
She panicked and snatched her hand away. “Anyway, how long do you think we should stay here?” she said hurriedly, hoping he put the heat rising in her cheeks down to the rays of the sun.  
  
Something flickered behind his eyes – confusion? Disappointment? Relief? She couldn’t tell. “I think we’re safe for a while yet,” he said. “Once all the mums and toddlers emerge then we’d probably better make a move...we don’t really want people recognising the uniforms.”  
  
She nodded and lay out on her back, blood pounding in her head. The grass itched against her legs and arms, and she had the uncomfortable sensation that something was crawling over her skin. Next to her, Derry had lain back down too.  
  
She felt an aching regret that for once had nothing to do with her sister. What, she wondered, would have happened if she hadn’t pulled her hand away?  
  
 _Stop it,_  she told herself sternly.  _You’re seeing what you want to see – he said it himself earlier, he’s your friend, nothing else._  
  
And yet – did friends really run their fingers over each others’ necks and arms?  
  
She reached a decision. “Derry?”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“Come back to my place tonight?”  
  
A beat. “Yeah, that’d be great – if you’re sure?”  
  
“I’m sure.”  
  
“OK then. Cool.”   
  
She heard the smile in his voice rather than saw it on his face, but instinct told her it was there. Exhaling loudly, she rolled onto her side and turned her face out of the sun.  
  
A few moments later she heard Derry shift, felt a subtle change in the way the shadows lay across her back, then his hand came to rest lightly in the groove where her hip met her stomach. She tried to breathe but it was like clamps had been fastened around her lungs. Her heart flipped from her throat to her stomach and back again. The pleasant ache returned.  
  
 _He’s looking after you. He’s making sure you know he’s there. It’s what friends do._  
  
She didn’t care. She leaned into him and let the sun wash over them as his fingers traced a circle on her side.


	13. Night Time in the Stables

Annis snickered into the friendly darkness of the stables. She was happy. She had her own stall now, between her mother and the big gelding that other horses seemed so afraid of, and some instinct rooted deeply inside her knew that better weather was on the way. The sunlight that poured through the doors on a morning felt stronger; the air was warm and solid and smelled of summer. Soon, her mother had told her, soon the grass would be green and juicy once again, and the humans would be more cheerful, and their lives would be easy until the cold returned. 

Voices drifted in from outside. One of the grooms – and the girl. She bent her head over the door to her stall and whinnied in welcome. The girl came to her often these days. Most every night she sought refuge in the stables and cried, which puzzled Annis, for the girl was neither hurt nor ill. Her distress made no sense to the strong young horse, but she liked the company nonetheless. The girl made her feel at ease. She was quieter than the small boy who usually came, and something in her voice and touch inspired trust in the foal. She felt a strange heat in the girl’s spirit, a boldness, but softness also, and great love. A peculiar creature indeed.

The timbre of the voices outside changed from questioning to agreeable, and the groom let in the girl and her noisy sobs. Annis snorted as the girl raced towards her. Humans were strange creatures. She didn’t understand them.

*

Beomia sprinted the length of the stables, not caring that the noise might disturb Brego and set him kicking and braying. The guard and groom hadn’t taken much convincing to let her in. They were used to her by now, and so far had kept their promise not to tell her father of her night time wanderings. 

She heard Annis whinny. The foal knew she was here. For the third night in a row she stretched her hand into the thick dark and rubbed the little creature’s nose, then flung her arms around her neck and howled like a madwoman.

Perhaps she was mad. Perhaps that was the explanation for the dreams. For months now she had been seeing the strangest images in her sleep, and it frightened her. They had been hazy at first, as though viewed through a veil of cloud. There had been rows of young people – around her own age, perhaps a little younger – sitting at small wooden tables and watching while a portly middle-aged man with prominent eyebrows wrote in white on a black stretch of wall. After a while, she too had seemed to be seated amongst the group. She was always next to the same person – a boy with long dark hair and a silver ring through one eyebrow. He had a crooked, teasing grin that felt uncomfortably familiar, but an unhealed part of her mind always shied away from examining him too closely. Like all the others, he was dressed in strange clothes; he wore loose grey breeches, a fitted white shirt and a dark blue overgarment with boxy shoulders. Nothing like it existed in Rohan, nor in any other place of which she had ever heard.

And that wasn’t all. As the months passed, the clarity of the dreams had sharpened. She had begun to spend time alone with the dark-haired boy, holding entire conversations with him that felt far too logical to be a by-product of her sleeping mind. Often they left the room filled with rows of tables and visited other places – houses spread over multiple levels, like the great palaces she had heard tell of at feasts, and tonight an open green space near a small lake. She shivered at the memory. This particular dream had disturbed her more than any other – she had lain in the young man’s arms and he had stroked her side in a way most improper for an unmarried couple. Whatever her mother may think, she and Orvyn had only ever been so daring as to steal the occasional kiss. This easy physical intimacy was new to her, and worst of all she had enjoyed it. While one part of her mind had screamed that it was wrong, another part had longed for more, and she had awoken with blood pulsing in her lips and her breath catching teasingly in her chest. Even now, a pleasant warmth spread through her at the thought of his arm resting around her waist. She gripped Annis’ neck tighter and tried to stifle the idea. It was wrong to imagine such things, even in sleep. 

She snuffled, breathing in the foal’s warm, musky horse-smell. “What do you think it means?” she asked aloud.

Annis twitched an ear in response. Beomia sighed, vaguely disappointed – although of course she had not expected an answer.

“It all feels so real,” she murmured. “But how can it be?”

For people and strange rooms and open spaces were not all she saw in her dreams. Occasionally, she and the dark-haired boy would ride inside the belly of a great metal beast; at other times, she saw people talking into odd little boxes of some hard material she couldn’t name, and conducting a conversation as though the little box were talking back. She shook her head, trying to disperse the memories as tears threatened to overwhelm her again. Even Wulf must never know about this. Sometimes he awoke when she’d been crying and asked her what was wrong; she would lie and say she was scared about having to marry Aiken. She couldn’t tell the truth. He would think she’d lost her mind.

As if sensing the girl’s distress, Annis knuckered softly and pushed her velvety muzzle into Beomia’s arm, then took a lock of her hair in her teeth and tugged. Beomia smiled and tucked the stray wisp back behind her ear. That was another peculiar thing about the dreams – her hair changed. Normally it was coarse and light brown, prone to flying out at odd angles; when she was asleep, however, it somehow became soft and dark and straight. 

Almost as if it were not hers at all.

She thought about going back to her house, but she didn’t want to wake Wulf. Better to let them discover her absence in the morning, as usual; that way they’d simply assume she’d risen early. She vaulted the door to Annis’ stall and searched around for a clean patch of straw. Eventually, with her cheek pressed to the foal’s warm sleek coat and soothed by the rhythmic monotony of its breathing, she dreamed again.

 


	14. Isabel Jane Murphy

“So this was her room?”

  
Anna nodded. “Yeah. This is it.”

Derry glanced around, taking in the lilac paint on the walls, the double bed with its frilled white valance, the boxes of designer makeup stacked on the desk. A pile of old copies of Vogue occupied one corner; in another hulked a vast stereo system equipped with a karaoke machine. He reached out to touch the pile of CDs on the bedside table, then remembered himself and looked at his friend for permission. Anna smiled and shrugged, which he took to mean yes. He ran one finger over the topmost album and then examined it, feeling slightly surprised.

“No dust,” said Anna. It was a statement, not a question.

“No dust,” he confirmed.

She nodded. “My parents keep it more or less the way she left it – except for the laundry.”

Derry lifted his eyebrows quizzically.

“Izzy used to leave dirty clothes all over the place,” Anna explained, her mouth twitching. “But after she – after the accident, they washed them all and hung them back in the wardrobe.”

He nodded. That made sense. Leave the room to gather dust and it would take on the feel of a tomb. Emptying it would be like pretending Izzy had never existed, but leaving her mess on the floor would be too painful. It would look like she’d only just left the room, and was going to come back at any minute. This way, it still felt sad, but warm and welcoming too, as if it wanted to share its memories of the girl who had once lived within its four walls.

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring you home with me before,” Anna continued, avoiding his eyes. “But if you’d asked about Izzy in front of my parents...and I couldn’t stand explaining...”

“It’s OK,” he interrupted her. “I told you – I’m not angry.” His eyes strayed to a photo resting on the bookshelf, propped up by an old copy of  _The Hobbit._  He smiled. “Is that you?” he asked, pointing.

“Unfortunately.” She blushed. “I hate that picture; I always used to ask her to get rid of it...”

He moved closer and crouched down to examine it. The photograph showed an exceptionally pretty blonde-haired girl of about thirteen sitting astride a dapple grey pony. Her jacket was festooned with rosettes and ribbons, but his curiosity was drawn towards the figure holding the bridle. A plump, twelve-year-old Anna smiled shyly up at him. “It’s brilliant,” he laughed. “You look...”

“Awful,” she finished, the colour from her cheeks creeping up to the roots of her hair.

“No. Just a bit different.” He refrained from saying exactly what was in his head, having learned from his mother that women of all ages could be touchy about their weight. Not that there was anything wrong with the Anna in the picture – he just found that rosy-cheeked little girl hard to reconcile with the bony young woman he was used to now. For the first time it crossed his mind that his friend’s twig-like limbs looked almost odd on her, as if they weren’t supposed to be that way. He watched her now as she drifted around the room, noticing the shadows that lay in the hollows of her cheeks, the pronounced bumps of her joints and knuckles. He swallowed, guilt sending ice racing through his veins. How had he not seen it before?

_Because you’re a self-centred arse who was too wrapped up his own stupid problems._

Suddenly it was as if something inside him had been unlocked. He wanted to run to her and pull her close – not the playful squeeze around the shoulders he usually greeted her with on a morning, not the friendly arm he often looped around her waist as they stood together in the playground. Not even the lazy, casual embrace they had shared in the park, though that had been closer. He wanted...

_Damn,_  he thought.

What  _did_  he want?

He got to his feet, his throat suddenly and inexplicably dry. He’d had a half-formed idea of going over to her right at that moment and crushing her against him, promising her that everything would be OK from now on, but something stopped him. Anna, his rock, with her quiet strength and gentle teasing humour, looked utterly lost in this room. She seemed fragile, delicate even. It was as if she’d sprouted an invisible barrier around her, or a “Don’t Touch” sign that only he could see. He didn’t dare go near her for fear of breaking her.

“What?”

She had caught him looking. Her voice was almost defiant.

“Nothing. Sorry.” He turned back to the photo, desperate for something to say that wouldn’t sound completely inane. “So if you hated this picture so much, why didn’t she move it?”

“Don’t know. Well...I do, but...” She began to twirl a loose strand of hair around her index finger. “It was taken at the South Essex Area Junior Horse Trials, and she won a load of prizes.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He waited for her to carry on, then he realised. “What – that’s it? That’s the reason?”

“Mm.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“It’s alright,” said Anna, smiling slightly again. “She was a bit of a show-off; we all knew that.” She moved over to the bed, but hesitated before sitting down, as though worried it might snap at her. “Hadn’t you already guessed?”

Derry realised she was nodding at various shields and trophies displayed in prominent locations throughout the room. Most had some sort of horse-related picture or inscription upon them. He whistled softly. “She must have been pretty good.”

“Oh, she was,” Anna agreed. “Her instructors used to say she’d be riding for Team GB by the time she was eighteen. She was loads better than me.”

Derry shot his friend a sharp look, but detected no trace of jealousy on her face or in her voice. She was simply stating a fact. Even so, he responded, “Well. You’re the younger one.”

“Only by a year.”

She released the strand of hair she’d been curling and let it spring back into place. “Everyone knew that Izzy was better. Including Izzy,” she added with a chuckle – then she met his gaze again, and her face hardened. “Don’t you look at me like that, Derry Allerton!”

“Like what?” he protested, hastily rearranging his features into the most neutral expression he could manage.

“All disapproving. Like you don’t think I should be saying this stuff about my sister.”

“Sorry-”

“I won’t be made to feel guilty about remembering her the way she was,” she continued coolly, sitting up straight and folding her arms. Despite her tone, Derry couldn’t help the thrill of admiration that ran through his body as she locked challenging eyes on his own. His Anna was back. “She was funny and she was gorgeous and she could be very kind – but she was also full of herself, pushy, even arrogant. She could be pretty thoughtless too, and she wasn’t always as gentle with the horses as she could be. Maybe that’s why she won so much, and I never won anything. Maybe I was too soft. But it never seemed fair to me that the horses slogged their guts out for her, and yet she’d always whip them and kick them and ask them for more, just because she wanted to win. She was a fierce competitor. Ruthless. And it didn’t stop with the horses. She had to be queen bee at school too – every girl in her year used to eat out of the palm of her hand, every boy was desperate for her to ask them out. And she loved it. That was the way she wanted it.” She hopped off the bed and went to the wardrobe. “She was materialistic, too – here, look.” She tossed Derry a selection of clothes; a quick glance at the labels made his eyes widen involuntarily. 

“Calvin Klein? Dolce and Gabbana?” he asked in disbelief. “Is it all real?”

“Oh, yeah. Every time she won money in a competition she spent it on clothes, then told Mum and Dad she’d put it in the bank.”

He couldn’t help but respect the girl’s guts, even if the logic behind her actions escaped him. “Didn’t they work it out when all this stuff appeared in the laundry?”

“I suppose so, but they turned a blind eye. They always did.”

_Ah._  There it was – the bitter note he’d been expecting when she’d started talking about Izzy’s achievements. “What do you mean?”

Once again she started playing with her hair. “Well, even when she was...you know...” – she swallowed – “alive...even then, she was the golden girl. Mum and Dad’s world was built around her.”

“And not around you.” He voiced what she’d left unsaid.

“No! No, I didn’t mean it like that.” She sighed, and gave him a slightly sheepish look. “Alright, maybe I did – a bit. But really, what I’m trying to say is that since the accident, Mum and Dad and even Grandma have almost forgotten that she was human. It’s like she never did anything wrong. All they ever talk about is how sweet she was, how unselfish, how polite, how hardworking – and it’s not true, none of it’s true!” Her voice rose shrilly, and she took a deep breath. “Look, I’m not trying to make my sister sound like a bad person, because she wasn’t.” She blinked, and for the first time since they’d entered the room, tears spilled out. “When it first happened I was the same. I thought it was wrong to talk or think about her faults. But then I felt like I was forgetting, and now I’m sick to...just sick of hearing everyone say how perfect she was, and remembering this angelic girl who wasn’t Izzy. I loved her as much as anyone – I still do love her-”

“I know.” Without thinking, he dropped the armful of clothes, reached out and laced his fingers though hers.

“That’s why I have to remember her the way she really was. Because when she was alive, that was how I loved her – in spite of the bits that weren’t so loveable. I can’t say this to anyone else; they’d think it was wrong, like blasphemy or something.” She took a step closer. “Do you see? If I pretend she was perfect, that would be nearly as bad as forgetting her.”

“I see,” he said softly – and he did see, and it made him ache with pity. “I wasn’t judging you.”

“I know. I just snapped. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he stepped forward and closed the gap between them. One lone tear had stopped and beaded halfway down her cheek. He bent forward and brushed it away with his free hand, and Anna gave a shallow gasp and closed her eyes.

“It’s OK,” he murmured, puzzled by her reaction. He couldn’t have hurt her, surely. Still not quite daring to wrap his arms around her the way he had in the park, he leaned in and rested his forehead against hers. It was warm and slightly damp. Her breath tickled against his lips, and they prickled in response. Suddenly he was very aware of the simple mechanics of his existence – his heart bouncing inside his ribcage, his lungs expanding as they filled with air and contracting again as he exhaled. Strands of Anna’s dark silky hair fluttered when he breathed out. His brain felt odd; he was almost lightheaded, but not in the horrible sickening way he associated with one of his fits of exhaustion. This was pleasant and enjoyable. For some reason his fingers were itching to touch Anna’s skin again, but she was already taking his hand, and his heart bounded erratically, the same way it had when she’d leaned against him in the park – then finally understanding came, and he only wondered that it had taken so long...

Downstairs a door opened.

“Hello, poppet!”

“Shit,” Anna hissed, and darted to the door. “Up here, Grandma!” She spun back to him.  _Come on,_  she mouthed.  _Out of here._

As he followed her onto the landing, his eyes were pulled by a turquoise rosette that clashed horribly with the lilac wall. It read:

_ISABEL JANE MURPHY  
1ST PLACE_

An odd twisting sensation constricted his chest. He hurried after Anna and shut the door. He’d seen enough.

“Are you alright, darling?” a voice called from downstairs.

“I’m fine.” Hurriedly she scrubbed at her eyes.

“Are your Mum and Dad back from work?”

“Not yet.”

He grinned at the hidden note of impatience in her voice, and guessed that she gave the same answers to the same questions most every night.

“Shall I put you some tea on?”

“I think we’re alright for now, thanks.”

“We?” Footsteps began to creak. “Have you got a friend up there?”

The voice sounded surprised, he noticed. Anna smiled and beckoned him to the top of the stairs.

“Grandma, this is Derry,” she said.

Derry nodded, instantly liking the tall, white-haired woman peering up at him.

“Hello, dear,” she beamed. “I didn’t realise Anna was bringing a friend back from school!”

The pair of them exchanged guilty glances, and before the old lady could ask any questions about their day Anna swiftly said, “We’ll be in my room, Grandma.”

“Oh, of course. I’ll be in the lounge, I think I’ll watch the last few minutes of  _Neighbours_...”

She shuffled along the hallway and out of sight. Derry turned back to Anna, the magical adrenaline of a few moments before rapidly subsiding. He felt awkward and uncertain. No longer was she simply his friend, the leaning post in his life, the one person he could rely on for a sympathetic ear. He had put a foot into the life attached to her, into her background and history and problems, and in doing so he had found knots and snarls in his feelings towards her. Where to go from here, he wasn’t sure. It had been playing out perfectly, he realised, his mind tracking back – the physical intimacy, the realisation, there had only been one more step to take from there, and he knew he’d have taken it. It would have been inevitable; like a horse galloping towards a wall had no choice but to jump, momentum and innate logic would have brought their scene to its only fitting conclusion. If only the door hadn’t opened downstairs...if only her grandmother had arrived five minutes later...

Now there was a gulf between them, an alien sensation he resented bitterly. He wondered if she felt it.

“Penny for them?” she suggested. “Come on. This way.”

It would seem not...although she didn’t meet his eyes. Nor did her voice sound entirely steady. But perhaps he was imagining things.

He followed her through to her room, and the first thing that struck him was how different it was to Izzy’s. It was smaller, with room for only a single bed, but it felt airier, fresher. The lines and colours were clean and sharp – black and cream bed covers played starkly against polished bare floorboards – and the wall opposite the bed was lined entirely with bookshelves. This was the only untidy area of the room; certain volumes were obviously cared for with pride, like her hardback set of Austen novels, but most were piled on top of each other and crammed in by any means possible. He wondered if she’d read them all. Probably, knowing Anna.

He turned back to face her, and found her perching on the bed, tears pouring down her face for the second time that day. 

“Hey!” Somewhere in his gut a heated ember shifted and flared into a rush of protective love. This girl had been his first real friend in years. She had treated him no differently when she’d found out about his injury; she’d held him when he’d cried, teased him gently out of his bad moods and sat quietly with him when his headaches got too painful to bear. Yes, she tended to push herself into the background. She wasn’t conventionally good-looking – he doubted that most people would even consider her pretty – but she’d looked after him even while trying to deal with tragedy in her own life, and not mentioned her own problems to him until today. She was clever and she was funny – though not in an obvious, intrusive way – and in some strange way he felt she was  _his_. 

And yet she was second in her family’s hearts and minds to the ghost of a girl named Isabel Jane Murphy.

Derry had spent the vast majority of his life trying to please both of his parents while they waged a war over his head. So much had often hinged on what was left unsaid – and from what Anna hadn’t told him, he found it easy to deduce an awful lot about her family. Izzy’s success in her horseriding, her good looks and her outgoing personality had blinded her parents to their younger, gentler daughter. Suddenly he didn’t care about invisible barriers and “Don’t Touch” signs and confused feelings. He dropped onto the bed beside his friend and hugged her tight, savouring the warmth that flooded him as she relaxed into his chest and wound her arms around his waist. His heart roared in his ears. He was acutely conscious of the way she smelled – how had it never struck him before? So many different layers of scent...the light flowery smell of her moisturiser...the spicy musk of her perfume...and another smell, deeper-seated, more natural and uniquely hers. Gentle, yet insistent and intoxicating. Not sweet, not savoury. Idly he wondered if she tasted the same way she smelled – indeed, if she’d ever been kissed at all.

_But whether she has or she hasn’t, would she even want to kiss you? You’re her friend._

Doubt loosened his grip. Anna sensed the change and looked up.

“Decided to let me breathe, did you?” she asked, one corner of her mouth quirking upwards.

He laughed; he couldn’t help it. “I didn’t mean to suffocate you. I’m sorry.”

His arms were still resting against hers; as she shifted, soft fine hairs tickled against the insides of his wrists. The air he inhaled rushed hot and cold against his throat.

“I don’t mind. What was it for, anyway?”

“You were crying.”

“I do that quite a lot. Just not in front of you.”

This statement both angered and saddened him. He swallowed, and tucked her hair behind her ears for her, surprised and pleased by the sensations that shot through him as his fingertip stroked her earlobe. “You don’t deserve this. Any of this.”

She shrugged, and reached up to his face. “Well, it’s not like you did anything to deserve this.” Her fingers brushed against his scar. He shivered.

“That’s nothing.” He folded his hand around hers, and brought them both back to rest in his lap.

“Nothing? Derry, you could have died!”

“I could have,” he conceded, cupping the back of her neck with his other hand. “But I didn’t.”

She tilted her head to one side, and her eyes smiled a thousand questions. Colour was flooding her lips – small, perfect – but he still wasn’t sure. He was scared. He was never normally scared in this situation – but then again, it had never mattered quite so much before. Their foreheads met again, their noses nudged awkwardly. Blood thumped in every part of his body. A wonderful aching itch formed somewhere below his stomach. His skin tingled. He closed his eyes, and his lips grazed the corner of her mouth.

She inhaled sharply, and he froze, suddenly panicking. Had he read it wrong? Wasn’t this what she wanted? Damn, it was what he wanted, more than anything in the world, but what if he’d only seen what he wanted to see...?

She wasn’t panicking, he realised. She was waiting, her brown eyes confused. 

_Fuck it,_  he thought. He cradled her face with both hands and kissed her gently but soundly on the lips.


	15. A Voice Quiet and Brief

The shrill sound of the girl’s cries startled Annis from sleep; she whinnied loudly and scrambled to her feet. Immediately the girl began to make soothing noises in the peculiar babbling tongue of humans, and the young horse felt her instinctive panic beginning to ebb away.  
  
 _No danger. All well._  
  
In the stall next door, the big gelding had begun to buck and clatter; Annis let out a comforting whumph, trying to calm him.   
  
 _Quiet, friend. No danger. Nothing to hurt us._  
  
His screaming brays softened into snorts of distress. Annis trotted to the edge of her stall and poked her head over the wooden board that divided her from her neighbour. Seeing her there, he picked his way over and gently rubbed his nose against hers. She twitched her ears as a lazy sense of pleasure spread through her. She liked the big gelding. She didn’t understand why her mother told her to keep away from him.  
  
The rustle of clothing and soft patter of feminine footsteps distracted her for an instant. The girl was leaving. Once again, tears had left salted tracks down her cheeks.  
  
Annis snickered in worry.  
  
 _Go safely, bold one. Don’t cry._  
  
She turned back to the gelding and listened to her human friend make for the door. After only a short while, however, the footsteps halted. Male voices sounded. One was harsh and angry – the one-armed man who had watched her being brought into the world, she realised. The other was softer, more understanding. She recognised it but could not place it, though she liked its sound. It was quiet and brief, but natural, not unnecessarily loud and grating like the voices of so many humans. She moved away to get a better look at him, but they were leaving, and taking her girl with them.  
  
 _No weeping, bold one. Be brave. Be strong._


	16. Riddle

Beomia's thoughts were a scrambled mess, and so she had decided to sit down and sew. The logical simplicity of the act pleased her. It was a comforting thought, that something could still make sense in a world that had been plunged into chaos.  
  
A cool breeze drifted in from the window as she worked, tickling against her skin. Outside she could hear her brother shrieking as he tore through the nearby streets with his friends, the whole lot of them giddy as drunkards at the sight of the sun and the glorious untainted expanse of blue sky. Not so long ago, she'd have joined them. Not now, though. It was not seemly for the women of Edoras to go careering through the streets with their younger brothers. Besides, she needed to think.  
  
The boy's face rose up in her mind again, with its achingly familiar crooked grin, its soft dark hair and the strange ring of silver through the eyebrow. She imagined that she was back in the foreign room, wooden-floored and tidy and clean-smelling. She heard the words drop from her mouth, the words she knew so well, followed by his laughing response.  
  
_"You could have died!"_  
  
_"I could have, but I didn't."_  
  
She closed her eyes as the panicked whirl rose in her chest again, and felt herself slip back into the memory of that winter’s night that now felt ages distant. She could almost taste the tang of the smoke in the air and hear the voices echoing in the room as Wulf sipped milk in his corner and Eadwyn clattered about with the dinner. Her shoulders prickled, as though expecting Orvyn’s arm to come to rest upon them once again as he told his story.  
  
_“But you could have drowned!”_  
  
_“I could have, but I didn’t.”_  
  
Two scenes, two lifetimes and two young men merged into one shapeless, alien mass in her imagination. She shuddered.  
  
As her hands moved across the blanket she was mending, she realised with surprising detachment that she had already known. Admitting it had been the difficulty, but a part of her had recognised Orvyn in the dark-haired boy the instant she'd seen him in that very first dream. The golden hair and soldier’s muscles might be absent, but it should have been plain enough from the manner of movement, the infectious laugh, the mischievous yet well-meaning glint in the eyes. And the smile, of course. Above all things, the smile.  
  
He had visited her in her dreams yet again, in that make-believe world that defied understanding, and this time he had kissed her - except she knew now that it wasn't her. Not really. She merely occupied the body of a smaller, slighter girl with long, neat, dark hair. Her own hair was light brown and tended to resemble a gorse bush, and though she was not fat she was far from being slim. She wondered if the Orvyn of the other world – Derry, she supposed she should call him, since that seemed to be his name there – would recognise her hiding behind the other girl’s eyes. It seemed unlikely.  
  
She winced as she pricked her finger on her needle, and berated herself for a clumsy fool. She got to her feet and sucked at the injury, not wanting blood to drip onto her mending. That would do nothing to appease her mother's temper.  
  
Orvyn, then – or the essence of him, or perhaps even his soul – was not truly dead. She did not know whether this was a comforting thought or not. What was clear enough was that he had gone far beyond her reach. Part of her mind ached with the longing to sleep, to see him again as she so often did, to try to communicate with him, inform him that she still loved him, would always love him. Somewhere, though, a deeply-engrained voice of common sense derided this notion as foolish. She had no control over what happened in the dreams. Never before had she been able to alter events or say anything of her own free will. Besides, she had enough worries to contend with in the here and now – namely, the fact that her parents had been furious to discover her night time wanderings, and that Aiken, her intended husband who should have been shamed and angered by her behaviour, had of all people been kind and understanding.  
  
She returned to her sewing but paid little attention to the rhythmic motion of her hands. Instead, she let her mind play over the morning that she had been found in the stables. Aldhelm, her beloved father, had seemed angry enough to strike her.  
  
"Fool of a girl!" he had raged. "What if the horse had got up in the night and trampled you? Have you no care for what your family would feel if we lost you?"  
  
"But Wulf and I have often-"  
  
"Oh, make no mistake, I will be speaking to Wulf as well. But come – you cannot expect me to believe that you have spent the entire night in the stables. Where have you been?"  
  
"Only here, Father."  
  
"The truth, if you please, Beomia! I will have no more of your lies and wiles!"  
  
Hot stinging tears had sprung in her eyes once again; this, after the revelation of her dream-boy's identity, was more than she could stand. Aiken, however (who had entered the stable with her father) had chosen this point to intervene.  
  
"I often find," he had said, in his quiet, gentle way, "that when my human cares become too great to bear, it is of great comfort to spend some time among those who are not foolish enough to trouble themselves with such things."  
  
Aldhelm, seemingly astonished, had fallen silent.  
  
"The presence of horses and dogs and other animals can be extremely soothing, to my mind," Aiken had continued, flushing dully at the undivided attention suddenly bestowed upon him. "They do not judge, nor do they criticize. They simply are. And they love us and are grateful for the very simple things we provide. They do not even care if that love is returned. Quite extraordinary, I think."  
  
She had gaped, amazed that sullen, silent, simple Aiken was capable of such deep thought and feeling.  
  
"However," he had added with a small smile, "I do agree with your father that it is foolish to sleep in the same stall as a young, lively horse. Accidents do happen, even with the best-natured of creatures."  
  
And no more had been said. Aiken had returned to his carpenter's workshop, and her father had taken her home to be roundly scolded by her mother for terrifying them all with her disappearance. Beomia had been oblivious, still too surprised by Aiken's reaction. She had expected anger, disappointment, perhaps a doubting of her purity and fidelity. But no. None of these. He had not questioned her at all, merely observed, and had somehow perfectly understood what had been in her head when she had taken refuge in the stables.  
  
There had also been something different about his voice, she realised, thinking back. When he had begun to talk about the animals he so obviously loved, his tone had taken on a warm glow she had never heard there before, and yet he hadn't appeared to get excited in the slightest. There had been no unnecessary emotional outburst, no increase in the volume of his speech. His voice had remained quiet, gentle and still.  
  
Perhaps she would have to re-think the way she perceived him. Perhaps – amazingly, astoundingly, impossibly – her mother was right. Perhaps she had not been giving him a fair chance.  
  
In that instant, she made up her mind. She would go and find him at his workshop, and speak to him there. She would somehow uncover the deeper, more thoughtful side to Aiken that had remained hidden all these months, but had crept reluctantly to the surface in the stables. She abandoned her sewing and strode out into the spring air, breathing in the fresh scent of the grassy plains rejuvenated by the sun's warming touch.  
  
*  
  
Aiken, however, was not at his workshop. She asked one of his lads where he might be found, and the boy told her that he had been urgently called home.  
  
"I hope all is well with him?" she inquired. "He was not ill?"  
  
"Oh, no.  _He's_  alright."   
  
The lad's use of emphasis puzzled her slightly, but she let it lie and procured directions to his house.  
  
It did not strike her as odd that she had never visited the home of her intended - even though she would live there one day soon, it was perfectly proper for the man to visit the girl he was courting in her own home. It had been the same with Orvyn. She had not been intimately acquainted with his family. She wondered now whether Aiken had family. She supposed not. He was, after all, nearly the same age as her own parents; in all likelihood his mother and father would be dead, and he had never mentioned any brothers or sisters.  
  
_But then, it's rare for him to mention anything at all,_  she thought wryly.  
  
She remembered her mother telling her about Aiken's father Ida, who had been a great war hero and had served under both Théoden and Thengel. She had cared little at the time, but now wondered if this Ida was angered by his son being a carpenter – and unmarried, to boot. This last thought did pique her curiosity. Perhaps Aiken had been married before. She had never thought to ask. An odd little knot formed between her stomach and chest, and with a rush of surprise she realised it was guilt. She did not know Aiken at all.  
  
Well, that could soon be rectified. That morning in the stables had given her a glimpse of the man behind the taciturn mask. Being married to that man might not be so terrible as she had feared.  
  
When she reached his house, however, she felt a surge of intimidation. It was large – not as large as Eothain's, but it was plain enough that Aiken and his family (if he had any) were rich. His father, she supposed, had gained his money through his soldiering; if he was such a hero as everyone claimed, he must have received handsome rewards from the King. And Aiken's carpentry business, of course, was prosperous – one of the reasons her mother had been so keen on the match.  
  
She raised a fist to the door and knocked.  
  
Aiken was quick to answer, but he opened the door only a little way, as though afraid to let anyone see inside the house. When he saw who it was, pleasure flitted briefly across his face, but it was quickly replaced by fear and then anger, though he smoothed the latter swiftly away.  
  
"Beomia, why are you here?" he whispered, a frantic note in his voice that she had never heard before.  
  
"I - I wanted to thank you." Doubt suddenly nagged at her; she had been so confident in her ability to engage him in conversation, but everything about his posture and voice suggested that he wanted her to leave, though why she could not fathom. Every word she had rehearsed in her head flew clean from her memory. "For the morning in the stables. For believing me. You understood."  
  
He closed his eyes briefly as though in pain, and nodded. "You're welcome." He glanced behind him. "This will seem unspeakably rude, I know, but-"  
  
"You wish me to leave."  
  
He nodded again. "I'm sorry."  
  
"I don't understand. Are you well?"  
  
"Perfectly." He hesitated, as though about to say more, then shook his head. "Forgive me, I cannot explain."  
  
"Very well." Disappointment and resentment welled inside her. "I will go."  
  
"I beg you, do not be angry."  
  
"I am not angry." It was a lie, but the man was her promised husband, and more than likely her last chance at a settled, comfortable life. She could not afford to offend him. "Goodbye, sir."  
  
"Goodbye." Another unreadable expression flew across his face, but before she had chance to decipher it he had shut the door.  
  
_This man,_  she thought to herself as she trudged back to her own house,  _is the greatest riddle I have ever come across._  
  
She did not mention the incident to her family; no doubt they would have scolded her for going on an unchaperoned visit to the house of her intended. Besides, they were all too busy making preparations for the Sun-welcoming Festival that was now only days away. Wulf and his friends had plans for the occasion, and there were rumours that King Elessar himself would be a guest for the festivities.  
  
She held her peace and pretended to share in their excitement.


	17. "Come to the Prom with me?"

“Do you mind?” Anna flipped her hair over her left shoulder, away from Derry who was sitting to her right.   
  
“I was just trying to get your attention...”  
  
Irritation and memory flared inside her. “That’s what my name’s for. There’s no need to pull my hair.”  
  
Louisa, to her left, snickered. Nat rolled her eyes and turned her chair pointedly away.  
  
Anna sighed. There had been a marked difference between her friends’ reactions to her budding relationship with Derry. Louisa had squealed and gushed and pranced about like a child with an extra Christmas present. Nat, on the other hand, had been less than supportive.  
  
“So you lied to us,” she had said bluntly as the three of them sat in the playground the morning after that first kiss.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“You lied. You said you didn’t like him.”  
  
“Yes, I know, but...”  
  
“And you knew I liked him too.”  
  
“Nat-”  
  
“Whatever, Anna.”  
  
The subject had been changed and conversation had moved on, but Nat’s face now pinched and grew cold whenever Derry’s name was mentioned. She avoided the topic of him-and-Anna at all costs, often to the point of getting to her feet and moving away when Louisa brought it up. Sometimes, of course, this wasn’t possible – such as in the middle of an English lesson.  
  
Derry was currently staring at her with his eyes dangerously narrowed. Anna aimed a sharp kick at his ankle, and he gave an indignant yelp.  
  
“Something wrong, Mr. Allerton?” Miss Walpole enquired, glancing in their direction.  
  
“No. Sorry.” He waited until her eyes were elsewhere, then mouthed angrily at Anna,  _what was that for?_  
  
“Be a bit more subtle, please,” she whispered, tilting her head ever so slightly in Nat’s direction.  
  
He grinned. “You mean Queen Bitch can’t take what she keeps dishing out?”  
  
Nat shot him a glare to rival some of Mr. Proust’s best. Clearly she had overhead. Anna sighed again, admitting defeat, and buried her nose in  _Romeo and Juliet._  
  
A minute or so later she felt another tug on her hair, and whirled around in irritation. “Will you please give it a rest!”  
  
“Sorry.” Derry spread his hands in a peace gesture. “I only wanted to borrow a pencil.”  
  
“Couldn’t you just have said so?” She tucked her hair back once again, placing it out of reach. “There’s a spare in my bag.”  
  
He leaned across and tugged her bag from under her chair, and as he did so murmured in her ear, "You OK?"  
  
"Fine," she responded, perhaps a little more shortly than necessary.  
  
"Sure?"  
  
"Leave it."  
  
The rest of the lesson passed uneventfully; however, when the end-of-lessons bell echoed throughout school, Miss Walpole called out over the flurry of packing and chattering, "May I have your attention for a few moments, please?"  
  
A buzz of interest rose in the room, and most of the class fell still.  
  
"Thank you." Miss Walpole adjusted her spectacles. "Now, just so I know that you're all informed, Mr. Proust and I have decided upon a venue for this year's Year Eleven Prom."  
  
The buzz rose to a murmur of excitement. Louisa was practically bouncing in her seat.  
  
"The dance will be held at the Elizabeth Royal Hotel on Pepin Street, and will be preceded by a three-course formal dinner."  
  
Anna couldn't help but feel a little flutter of excitement in her stomach at the news; even some of the boys looked vaguely impressed, she noticed. She glanced to her right to examine Derry's reaction.  
  
He looked as though he couldn't have cared less if the Prom were to be held in a cow shed.  
  
"Any of you willing to help decorate the venue beforehand should contact the Art Department before we break up for study leave." Miss Walpole smiled. "That's all; you may go."  
  
"The Elizabeth Royal!" Louisa sighed, evidently ecstatic. "I can't believe it!"  
  
Derry swung his bag over his shoulder and raised a nonchalant eyebrow. "I don't see what everyone's so excited about."  
  
"You're not local," Louisa said dismissively. "The Elizabeth Royal is gorgeous - if celebrities ever came to stay here, that's where they'd head for. It's amazing. I can't believe they managed to book it for Prom - they tried last year but they couldn't get in..."  
  
She wandered ahead with Nat, both of them eagerly discussing the dresses they'd like to buy for the event if they could get their hands on several hundred pounds between now and the end of GCSEs.  
  
Derry shook his head, a look of amused superiority on his face. Anna chuckled.  
  
"You'll like the Elizabeth Royal," she told him, slipping her arm through his. "Even you won't be able to pretend you're not impressed."  
  
"I will if I don't go."  
  
"What?" She stopped and turned to face him, ignoring the Year Nine boys who tried to barge her out of the way in their haste to get out of the building. "You're joking, right?"  
  
"Nope, deadly serious." He bit his lip. "Come on, Anna; can you really see me somewhere like that? A formal dinner-dance at an expensive hotel?"  
  
"But it's Prom. You'll be all dressed up. And besides, everyone goes - it's tradition, it's like our final fling after exams, everybody goes their separate ways afterwards!"  
  
"Not really. There's sixth form."  
  
"Loads of people don't come back for sixth form. About a third of the year leaves once they've sat their GCSEs. It's a chance to say goodbye to everyone."  
  
He tilted his head. "You're not leaving, are you?"  
  
"You know I'm not."  
  
"There you are, then." He caught at her hands. "You're the only one that I'm bothered about - as long as you aren't leaving, why should I go to the goodbye party?"  
  
"You’re such a pain sometimes!" She pulled her hands free and stalked away down the corridor.  
  
"You're going to throw a temper tantrum because I won't go to the Prom with you?" He followed her, laughing, clearly not taking her reaction seriously. "Come on, Anna, since when did you switch personalities with Nat?"  
  
He fell into step alongside her; she turned her head away, not sure whether her bad mood was real or put on for effect. Derry chuckled, and reached out to tug on a strand of her hair.  
  
"For crying out loud, what's wrong with you today?" She jerked her head away from him, real fury suddenly bubbling in her stomach. "Leave my hair alone!"  
  
To her horror her voice broke, and tears welled warm and salty in her eyes. She turned round to face her friend, who now looked hurt and confused, and immediately her anger dissipated.  
  
 _Oh, hell, how do I explain this to him?_  
  
"I'm sorry, Derry," she said eventually, the bemused look on his face causing an ache around her lower chest. "It's just...oh, I don't want to keep going on about this, but...Izzy used to pull my hair all the time. Out of spite when we were little, because she knew I hated it – then when she was older she started doing it just to get my attention, because she knew I’d react. I couldn’t stand it. Even less so now – for obvious reasons."  
  
Confusion immediately slipped into sympathy and guilt. "I didn't know."  
  
"Of course you didn't." She managed a smile. "I just thought I'd better tell you why I was reacting like that. That's all."  
  
He nodded, and reached out to fold her into his arms. She rested her cheek against his chest, ignoring the discomfort of his collarbone digging into her face and instead breathing in the fresh, clean smell of his shirt. For a few moments they stood still, and then he dropped a kiss onto the crown of her head. Her skin tingled warmly where his lips touched.  
  
"I should get going," he said. "Mum will be wondering..."  
  
"I know." She tilted her face up towards him. "Please come to the Prom with me?"  
  
He sighed and shook his head. "I can't. Really. The flashing lights and the noise...I'll only get a headache, and then your night will be spoiled, because you're far too nice for your own good and you'll feel obliged to look after me. Plus I don't really want a headache myself. They aren't pleasant - as you know."  
  
Disappointment sank inside her like gravel through water, but she nodded. "No, I know. Sorry for badgering you."  
  
He shrugged and grinned. "Nice to know my presence is wanted, at least." He cupped her jaw with one hand and rested his lips lightly against hers for a moment. "See you tomorrow."  
  
"See you."  
  
She watched him go, then trailed back to her form room, her mood having dipped from giddy excitement into grey neutrality. It would sink further if she let it, she knew, and so she sought occupation. She busied herself with searching in her locker for things she didn't need, unaware of Mr. Proust's concerned gaze at her back.


	18. Sun-Welcoming

Firelight flickered against the sloping plains of Rohan, and laughter danced across the warm summer’s air. The people of Edoras trickled out of the city and onto the grasslands as the light faded from the sky. Excitement virulent as fever coursed through the Rohirrim today, for it was the first time in many long years that the King had deemed it safe enough for Sun-welcoming to be celebrated in the traditional manner – outside the city walls, at one with nature and the wild. The men had been building the bonfires for days, gathering wood and arranging it just so. The women, meanwhile, had cooked fit to feed the Host of the West – stews, soups, cured meats and cakes had been piled in the storage houses and kept under lock and key, away from hungry children’s thieving fingers.   
  
In an ordinary-looking Middle City house, one giddy little boy was close to driving his mother and sister to distraction.  
  
“Can we go yet, Mother?” Wulf asked for the umpteenth time, bouncing up and down on his stool by the fireplace.  
  
“I’ve told you plenty of times, Wulf; we’re going nowhere until your father comes home...”  
  
Uninterested in hearing the same conversation yet again, Beomia turned her attention to the window. The cool night air blew in and whispered against her ear, and when she breathed in she could taste the sweet bite of smoke from the fires. Reflexive excitement began to rise in her. She had only vague memories of celebrating Sun-welcoming this way; her fifth birthday had barely passed when King Théoden had declared the roving bands of Orcs on the plains too much of a danger to risk such a large gathering in the open at night. Blurry, half-forgotten images shifted to the surface of her mind – her parents dancing and seeming to glow in the firelight, the painful burning of her mouth on a hot roasted nut, her own shrieks as she darted through the legs of the adults, playing chasing games with her friend Acca. The ache of nostalgia tugged at her chest as it so often did these days. Acca was now married with a young daughter, and no doubt she herself would be a wife before very long.  
  
She frowned. It had been more than a month now since Aiken had formally asked for her hand. She was in no particular hurry to leave home and begin her new life, but nothing had yet been said about finalising the union – indeed, she had not seen Aiken since the day she had visited his house.  
  
 _If “visit” it could be called,_  she thought. She wondered whether she should mention the matter to her parents.  
  
As she was debating the question, the door creaked open and a beaming Aldhelm entered the house. “Good evening, everyb-”  
  
“FATHER!” Wulf leapt from his stool and hurtled across the kitchen, ignoring Eadwyn’s rebuke. “You’re back, you’re back, we can go, we can go...”  
  
And suddenly Eadwyn was heaping loaves of bread into her arms, and Wulf was dancing a jig in his excitement, and Aldhelm was laughing, and she couldn’t help but smile and join in with their chatter. This would, after all, be her last Sun-welcoming as part of this family only. It would be as well to enjoy it.  
  
*  
  
Out on the plains, festivities were already well underway.  
  
“And then,” chuckled a large middle-aged man to his group of friends as the family passed by, “she said to me “I’ll tell you where you can stick that flagon of ale, and I hope you break your back trying to do it!””  
  
“What’s he talking about, Mother?” asked Wulf with a wide-eyed innocence that Beomia could have sworn was feigned.  
  
“Never you mind,” scowled Eadwyn as the man’s friends guffawed. “Really, the way some people talk when they’re in their cups...”  
  
A couple of hours, a solid meal and a large amount of mead later, Eadwyn was regaling her friends with an intimate and colourful account of an aspect of her and Aldhelm’s relationship that Beomia had no wish to know anything about. Not sure whether to be revolted or amused, she turned her head pointedly in the other direction.  
  
Her eyes fell upon Eothain, standing nearby. He smiled; she inclined her head and was going to turn away, but he excused himself from his group and made his way over.  
  
“Good evening,” he greeted her, bowing slightly.   
  
She giggled. “Good evening, Captain.”  
  
“Please, call me Eothain.”  
  
“Oh, I couldn’t...”  
  
“I insist.” He offered her his arm. “What are titles between friends, after all?”  
  
“Friends?” She tilted her head as she accepted his arm. “That’s a bold claim, sir. We have met but once.”  
  
“True. The circumstances, however, were somewhat unusual.”  
  
Heat rose in her cheeks as she remembered how he had found her sprawled upon the ground and crying near the steps of Meduseld. “They were,” she replied, feeling thankful for the forgiving glow of the fire.  
  
“Will you walk with me?”  
  
“Thank you. I would present my parents, but ...”  
  
“I can see that they are otherwise engaged,” he assured her, blue eyes twinkling.  
  
 _I suppose that’s one way of putting it._  She shot one last glance at her family and their friends, uncertain whether or not to bother excusing herself. Her mother was cackling hysterically, and her father seemed about to start singing something lewd and raucous with his brothers.  
  
She decided against it.  
  
“I’ve been meaning to ask after you for some time,” Eothain said as they picked their way through the clusters of people. “Have you been well?”  
  
“Yes, thank you.” She licked her lips nervously. “Eothain - I’m sorry for my behaviour last time...”  
  
“Please don’t apologise. Grief can do strange things to people.” Very briefly he tightened his grip on her arm, and gave her a gentle smile.   
  
 _If circumstances had been different,_  she thought idly,  _it would have been all too easy to fall in love with this man._  “How is your mother?” she asked aloud, partly to distract herself but mostly out of real interest. “Is she here?”  
  
“Sadly not. She says even the idea of climbing up these hills makes her want to take to her bed.” His eyes twinkled again. “I take it that I may pass on your good wishes, however?”  
  
“Yes, please do. She was most kind to me. You both were.”  
  
“It was nothing that anyone else wouldn’t have done.” He glanced about. “Speaking of anyone else – is your husband here?”  
  
She laughed. “I have no husband – not yet.”  
  
“Oh!” He raised his eyebrows. “Forgive me; the way you were speaking the last time we met, it sounded as though everything had been settled.”  
  
“It had. It has. I think.”  
  
“You think? Surely your parents are keeping you informed?”  
  
“Oh, they are,” she said hastily. “I’m promised, I’ve accepted his hand – but –” Here she hesitated. Although she had sobbed out her troubles to Eothain and his mother once already, she felt that it would hardly be proper to do so again. Not on Sun-welcoming, when everybody was out to feast and drink and dance and enjoy themselves.  
  
“But?” he prompted gently.  
  
She sighed. It was no use. She had to tell somebody. “I don’t understand him in the least,” she murmured. “I don’t know him...I can’t make sense of him at all...” And she explained everything to Eothain – her initial aversion to Aiken, the brief glimpse of a more thoughtful man that she had seen in the stable, her guilt that she knew so little about him, and finally the way he had behaved when she had called on him a few days ago. Eothain said nothing, instead simply listening and giving the occasional encouraging nod.   
  
When she had finished, he sucked thoughtfully on his lower lip. “I beg your pardon, Beomia, but what did you say his name was?”  
  
“Aiken.”  
  
“I thought so. You mean Ida’s son, the carpenter, I suppose?”  
  
“Yes,” she said, surprised that Eothain would know this – but then, she supposed that almost everyone in Edoras had cause to visit a carpenter’s at one time or another, and after all, Aiken’s father was renowned across the Mark.  
  
“I see.” He frowned. “That was an interesting choice by your parents.”  
  
A suspicious nagging sensation tugged at her chest. “He’s a good deal older than me, that’s true...but that isn’t what you mean, is it?”  
  
Eothain didn’t reply.  
  
“You know something,” she pressed on. “Don’t you? Eothain, you said earlier that we were friends – if you are any friend to me at all, I beg you, tell me the truth!”  
  
Behind his whiskers, the young Captain’s mouth twitched. “Always, every time, our conversations seem to find their way around to the same thing. Come – let us find somewhere to sit down, and I will explain as much as I may.”  
  
“As much as you may?” Beomia expostulated, fury beginning to bubble inside her. “What does that mean? You’ll tell me as much as suits you? Sun and stars, this is the man I am to marry, and nobody will let me know a thing about him...”  
  
“Temper, temper!” he laughed. “Pray, lower your voice. Someone will think I am assaulting you.”   
  
She took a deep breath and continued in a vitriolic whisper, “I am hardly asking for anything unreasonable. If there is something dreadful in this man’s past –”  
  
“There is not,” Eothain interrupted her, his tone suddenly sober. “Or rather, nothing of his own making. Now hush, at least for a moment.”   
  
Puzzled and now more curious than ever, she allowed him to lead her to an area where the groups were more thoroughly dispersed, but still close enough to the main hub of the crowd so as not to arouse suspicion. He assisted her down onto the grass, then settled himself beside her and crossed his legs. Doing so made him look comically youthful, and Beomia had to suppress a smile.  
  
"Please understand that I cannot tell you everything." He paused as a pair of shrieking girls ran past them, and Beomia felt the twinge of nostalgia again. "I do not know everything, for one thing, and what I do know is not really mine to tell. However, there are certain things that I believe you would view differently, if you had a little more information. Aiken's reticence, for example. As you seem to have now rightly perceived, it is not down to stupidity, nor is it mere sullenness." He glanced around them, ascertaining whether or not they were likely to be overheard, and lowered his voice. "Aiken's father Ida, though a great military hero, was far from noble in the shelter of his own home. Aiken was his only living child. He beat both his son and his wife regularly, and as a result Aiken is suspicious of others until he gets to know them. He was afraid to make friends as a child and bring them home - understandably - and so interacting with his peers was and still is difficult for him."   
  
"Oh," breathed Beomia, a well of compassion rushing up inside her. "That's terrible...it's..."   
  
"I know," Eothain said grimly. "I know."   
  
"But why?" Tears sprang readily to her eyes. "How could anybody do that to their child?" The very idea defied the logic upon which her world was built. Though she often argued with her mother, the thought of Eadwyn raising more than the occasional angry fist to her or her brother felt nearly as alien as the dream world containing the other Orvyn. She tried to picture Aiken - strong, sturdy Aiken - cowering before a strap-wielding figure with a shadowy face. The image made her feel sick.   
  
"I cannot understand it either." Eothain sucked on his lower lip again. "But still, beat them he did. Perhaps he felt that Aiken wasn't living up to the reputation he was born into - I have heard such stories from the men I fight with. Perhaps his wife displeased him. Perhaps it was simply that all the hunting and killing of Orcs had addled something in his brain, and he could no longer distinguish between those times when violence was a necessary evil and when it was simply an evil." His eyes aged beyond their years as he voiced this last thought. "That is a danger we all face, we men of the Mark."   
  
"Not you, though." Beomia instinctively reached out to him and curled her fingers around his arm. "Not you."   
  
"Yes, I too," he said with a tired smile. "I have seen horrors that I you cannot imagine, and for that I am unspeakably glad...but now is not the time for that. It is you we are concerned with for now." He laid his hand on top of hers. "As far as I know, Aiken always vowed that he would never take a wife, not wishing to inflict what his mother suffered upon another woman."   
  
Beomia swallowed. "What happened to his mother?"   
  
"She died," Eothain replied simply. "Many speculated that Ida had killed her - there was nothing wrong with her health, or not that anyone knew about."   
  
Beomia shuddered. "And so...is Ida dead now as well?"   
  
Eothain shook his head. "No. No, he is not." He stared directly into her eyes and placed his other hand upon her shoulder, the same way he had when he had told her about Orvyn. "That is why I felt I must tell you."   
  
Horror crept over her like a chill winter's mist. "He wouldn't let me into the house..."   
  
Eothain nodded.   
  
"But then...oh, no wonder there have been no preparations, no wonder I have never learned anything of his family...Eothain, it could be me next, I cannot marry him, I cannot!"   
  
"Hush!" he hissed; other groups were shooting curious glances in their direction. "Ida is in no position to harm you."   
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
"He is bedridden - an invalid. Aiken cares for him out of a sense of duty alone - there is no love left on either side. Ida has taken to wine as a retreat from his misery and frustration; more often than not he is incapable of coherent thought or speech."   
  
She bit her lip, thinking, and her mind reached an unpleasant conclusion. “Then I would have to care for him, as the woman of the house.” Fierce, poisonous anger surged through her. “I am being hired as a nursemaid, not courted as a wife!”  
  
“I very much doubt that.” Eothain squeezed her hand. “As I said, Aiken vowed never to take a wife. He must have seen or sensed something most unusual in you, to make him change his mind.”  
  
“I don’t see how.” She drew her knees up and rested her chin upon them. “I don’t know him at all. I’ve told you that. I’d barely exchanged a cordial greeting with him before he began courting me.”  
  
“Aiken’s the type to notice things,” he smiled. “Where other people waste their energy on meaningless chatter, he will simply observe and understand. For example, he will see a grieving young woman spending time with her horse, and accept that she needs its silent, unconditional loyalty far more than the well-intentioned but meaningless words of her human friends.” He held her gaze levelly. “He will see a little boy who has recently lost his father, and know that what he needs is not sympathy, but something productive to do and a quiet ear to speak into when his cares grow too great to bear.”  
  
She frowned, and then understanding flooded into her mind. “Oh, Eothain...”  
  
He held up a hand. “It was a long time ago. Almost twenty years.”  
  
“And you still can’t abide any display of sympathy,” she said softly. “It makes you feel sick, because people pretend to understand, but how can anyone but you possibly know what you feel?”  
  
Startled, he nodded. “I begin to understand why Aiken chose you. That...that was uncannily perceptive.”  
  
“It was a guess, no more.”  
  
His smile was rather shakier than before. “Aiken often says that as well. I don’t think the two of you are so ill-suited as you first thought.”  
  
Her blood began to burn under her cheeks again as she remembered the way she had raged against her match with Aiken in Eothain’s house, and all the while he had been one of his friends. “I’m sorry – what I said –”  
  
“Set your mind at rest, I will not repeat it.” He grinned at her, composure evidently returning. “It is a common misconception about Aiken. I put it right where I can; he deserves no less.”  
  
She sighed, and then another thought struck her. “Do you think my parents know about Ida?”  
  
“No. Very few people do. Most believe he is still relatively hale, and that his not going out of the house is a choice.”  
  
“Why...?”  
  
“Aiken has done all he can to keep his father’s true nature a secret.” A bitter note crept into Eothain’s voice. “He has given up the hope of any sympathy for himself in an effort to let Ida keep his hero’s name.” Again he looked her straight in the eye. “I think, Beomia, that you have grown and changed even since we last met – you may already understand this, but if you do not then mark it well now. There is more than one kind of hero. Military prowess is all very well. Sacrifice in battle is admirable. Wit and charm and good looks are enticing, but none of these things necessarily make someone a good man.” He tilted his head. “You do understand my meaning, don’t you?”  
  
“Yes.” She touched his hand lightly. “Thank you, Eothain.”  
  
He nodded, satisfied. “You’re welcome. Now, shall we return to the festivities?”  
  
“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d prefer to take a short walk – perhaps as far as the city and back. There’s no need for you to come,” she added quickly.  
  
Eothain laughed. “Off to see your foal?”  
  
She smiled. “How did you know?”  
  
“It was a guess, no more.”   
  
The twinkle was back in his eyes as he helped her to her feet; on impulse she flung her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “Once I’m married, I’ll make friends with all the gossiping housewives and find you a wife as well,” she promised.  
  
“My mother’s been trying to do that for years,” he told her, his mouth quirking up at the corner. “No luck so far.”


	19. A Light from the Shadows

She had expected to be alone in the stables.   
  
At first, she thought she was indeed by herself. The enveloping gloom and reaching shadows hid the stranger from view as she entered, and it was only a snicker of pleasure from one of the end stalls that made her look closer. She jumped as she noticed him. His hooded outline seemed to melt into the darkness; even now she had seen him she found it hard to fix her eyes on his shape, almost as though the edges of his form were fluid. However, she did see one arm shift and extend towards the gate of Brego's stall.   
  
"Have a care, sir," she called. "He's quite wild."   
  
"He won't harm me," the stranger replied. "We're old friends."   
  
There was a lilting musicality to his voice and a gentle burring in the rhythm of his speech. Curious, she advanced towards him. "You are not from Edoras, are you, sir?"   
  
"I? No."   
  
"Then how do you come to know Brego?"   
  
A low, rough-edged chuckle rose from the stranger's throat. "This horse bore me through some of the most troubled times our world has yet seen."   
  
A wave of giddiness swept over Beomia, and her head spun. She remembered the stories she'd heard, of Brego being tamed with Elf-magic after the death of Théodred, of the wild horse's fierce loyalty to one man, of the future king of Gondor being borne to the Horburg on his back...   
  
"King Elessar," she whispered.   
  
The stranger did not reply.   
  
She swallowed, trying to ease the dryness in her throat. "I - I apologise," she managed to say eventually. "I will leave you -"   
  
"Nay, stay a while," he said, drawing back his hood. "I had hoped to avoid being recognised, but it seems you know Brego's history too well."   
  
"My brother told me about it," she murmured stupidly. Feeling that she should at least show some respect, she dropped into a curtsey. This time the King laughed outright.   
  
"Rise, lady; I am not in Edoras on state business. I am merely here to enjoy the festivities."   
  
"There were rumours that you might come...I didn't think anything of them..."   
  
"What is the excellent expression your people use? No smoke without a fire?"   
  
Her tongue seemed to have swollen to twice its usual size. She felt utterly incapable of speech. She didn't even dare to move closer to Annis, for her stall was next to Brego's and therefore nearer the King, and she feared to seem too bold.   
  
Annis, though, had evidently recognised her voice, and gave an impatient whinny.   
  
"It seems you have a friend here," King Elessar said - and though she couldn't tell for certain in the dim light, she could have sworn he was smiling. "Does she have a name?"   
  
"Annis," Beomia replied, edging nervously forwards and putting out a hand towards the young horse’s questing muzzle. "Hello, my pretty girl," she murmured, rubbing her hands over the velvety nose in welcome. "I'm sorry, I don't have anything for you today..."   
  
"She's a beauty," the King remarked, and reached out a hand. "May I?"   
  
Beomia nodded, still dumb, and watched as he stroked his hand along the familiar white neck. In the stall next door Brego stamped, evidently jealous.   
  
"Patience, my friend!" Elessar laughed. But Annis had moved away and put her nose over the wall that separated their two stalls. Brego gave a soft snort of pleasure and ambled over to greet her.   
  
"Interesting," the King murmured. "And very odd."   
  
"They're great friends," Beomia managed to say, unravelling her tongue.   
  
"Indeed?"   
  
She nodded. "Out on the plains, if you can't find them, you can be reasonably sure that they're together somewhere."   
  
"Interesting," he said again. "The grooms told me that all the other horses were afraid of him."   
  
"All but her."   
  
"I wonder why," he murmured, half to himself. "I wonder..."   
  
He stood and watched the two horses in silence for a while. Beomia, though she had intended to spend a while in the stables, began to feel uncomfortable. "Please excuse me, I should leave -"   
  
"Have you ever considered why your Annis loves Brego so much?" Elessar asked as though he hadn't heard her.   
  
"No, I can't say that I have." She swallowed. "You're right, it does seem strange."   
  
"Brego bolted at Dunharrow, outside the Paths of the Dead," he mused. "And they say that when they found him, he was half mad. Horses, you see," he added, turning to her, "are particularly sensitive to the movements of the air and earth around them. They feel things that humans do not."   
  
"My betrothed used to say the same thing."   
  
"And Brego had clearly sensed the presence of the ghosts in the Haunted Mountain...such things are enough to send a Man or an Elf out of his wits, let alone a horse..." He let out a long, slow breath. "When the groom explained how the other horses behave around him even now, I wondered if they could perhaps still sense the touch of those unfortunate spirits upon his mind. And yet your Annis does not seem to."   
  
"No." Beomia eyed the foal and the gelding nervously, half-expecting to see an ancient ghostly warrior perched upon Brego's back, or leaning against his neck. The tales she had heard of the Haunted Mountain made her shiver even now, safe in her city and in the presence of the King of Gondor.   
  
 _Fancy - me standing here, talking about horses with the King of Gondor..._    
  
"Would she come to you if you called her?" Elessar asked.   
  
"I think so." Her throat dry again, Beomia leaned over the door to the stall and licked her lips. "Annis," she called, tapping against the wood. "Annis!"   
  
Reluctantly, the white foal turned to face her and then trotted over.   
  
"Good girl," Beomia crooned, rubbing Annis' nose and sidling edgeways to make room for the King. "Good girl..."   
  
"Most impressive." He reached out to the young horse again, rested his fingers between her ears, and to Beomia's surprise began to murmur in a tongue she had never heard before.   
  
It could only be Elvish. Its rolling, mellifluous sounds and gentle cadences seemed to twine around her and calm every fear in her soul. Nothing mattered any more - everything would be alright with the world, as long as she could stay here and listen to this man speaking in this alien language that somehow also felt homely and familiar. Annis too seemed affected. The foal was blinking her eyes slowly, as though hypnotised, and stood perfectly still.  
  
“I sense death in her,” he murmured.  
  
“Death?” Beomia extended her hand towards Annis, alarmed. “You mean she’s sick?”  
  
“No, not at all. She’s perfectly healthy.” He stroked the snowy muzzle, and exhaled thoughtfully. “I cannot understand it...”  
  
“Will she be alright?”  
  
“Yes. Yes, there is no need to trouble yourself; nothing is wrong with her. She is full of life – and yet the touch of Mandos lingers upon her like a scar upon her skin.”  
  
“Mandos?” The name was vaguely familiar, but her mind stubbornly refused to place it for her.  
  
The King nodded. “The Judge of the Dead and the Master of Doom.”  
  
Her skin prickled hot and cold and fearful. “It sounds like the tales of the Haunted Mountian.”  
  
Again he chuckled. “It is strange that you should say so. The only other animal in which I have ever sensed anything similar is Brego – and upon him it is the deepest of wounds. Spirits who should long ago have left the fetters of this world have disturbed him to his very soul.” An aching sadness filled his voice, and he began to croon in Elvish to Brego. The horse stood unusually quiescent at the gate of his stall, now and again uttering a soft contented snicker.  
  
Beomia watched, the sides of her throat sticking together.  
  
“Perhaps,” he mused aloud, “perhaps this is why your Annis does not fear him. They have both felt the touch of a force that moves beyond the bounds of our world.”  
  
“But the other horses are not afraid of Annis.”  
  
“Because Annis’ soul is undisturbed, intact and peaceful. As I said, horses can sense these things.”  
  
“So what happened to you, my beauty?” Beomia whispered to the foal.  
  
“Possibly nothing.” The King stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder...I have heard of such tales, but I never thought...”  
  
Curiosity stirred in the pit of her stomach, but she dared not say anything.  
  
“I cannot be certain – I am not learned in such things,” he said, meeting her eyes, “but I believe her soul may have lived before.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
He sighed. “Among Men there are some – a very few, I grant you, but some – who claim to remember things that happened before they were born, or who knew of an event hundreds of years before it occurred. You might say that they remembered the future.”   
  
Feeling stupid, Beomia said, “I still don’t understand.”  
  
“Nor do I, entirely.” He stroked Brego’s nose absently as he continued. “We cannot comprehend the Gift of Men. Some believe that, when they die, their soul will be sent back into our world rather than passing into an afterlife - in the Halls of Mandos or elsewhere. The body one’s soul occupies when this happens is thought to be related to how we lived our former life.”  
  
In her mind something rose like a cloud of dust blown from a treasure long-forgotten but newly rediscovered. She shuddered, not quite yet grasping what she thought she knew. “What makes them think so?”  
  
“As I said, they remember things they shouldn’t. They see things in their minds and in their dreams that they cannot understand.”  
  
Her stomach twisted and she closed her eyes. Burned into her lids she saw the image of the dark-haired boy who both was and wasn’t Orvyn. “Oh, Eorl...” she murmured.  
  
“Are you well?”  
  
“Yes. I think so.” She swallowed, terrified to be asking questions of the King of Gondor, but needing to know, to understand. “You spoke of men who can remember the future?”  
  
The King nodded. “Those who believe in these second lives often think that our souls do not live chronologically – that is, we may live first in one time, and next in a time many Ages earlier.”  
  
She shook her head, as though it would help all these strange and disparate pieces of information would fall into place. “Did they speak of what it was like? Forgive me for asking,” she added hastily.  
  
“Do not apologise.” He considered her carefully. “They said that it was like viewing a strange world through another’s eyes.”  
  
Emotion rolled within her like a river swelling with the tide. Clashing feelings whirled in her mind and heart – relief that she was not alone and not mad after all, joy in eventually reaching a kind of understanding, and a mad aching need to know more. Yet what else was there to know? A thousand questions chased away and eluded her tongue, refusing to take form and be voiced. Then terror blacked her vision, and she choked on her tears and covered her face.  
  
How long it was before she became aware of the gentle grip on her arm, she did not know. She gulped, trying to regain control of herself. He hushed her and murmured something in Elvish, then switched back to Rohirric.  
  
“I must leave; my presence will be missed.” He sighed and released her. “I do not know what you have seen or how you have suffered, and for that I am sorry, but know this.” He placed a hand upon her head and intoned softly, “ _From the ashes a fire shall be woken; a light from the shadows shall spring._ ”  
  
Warmth seemed to touch her then in the darkened stable, and a sense of calm purpose, as though the words held some kind of magic or charm. She lifted her head to thank him, but he had vanished as swiftly and silently as the Elves he had been raised by.  
  
She sat in the dark pondering his words for a long time, teasing through her tangled thoughts as she often teased a comb through her knotted hair. She wished she could have spoken to him for longer. After the first shock, there was much that she wanted to know. Who was Annis? Was her soul from the past or the future? Was two lives all that anyone ever got, or was all life and eternity an ongoing cycle of death and rebirth for the soul?  
  
 _And if we can live in the future before the past, is this my first life or my second? Was I there before I was here?_  
  
And then with another crash of understanding, she realised it didn’t matter. Derry’s face played before her mind again – Derry, who used to be Orvyn. Or had Orvyn once been Derry? Again, it didn’t matter. The Valar are merciful, Elessar had said. Merciful enough to give her and Orvyn a second chance, some day, somewhere? Joy flooded her, followed by a terrible empty sadness wider than the expanse of the plains and as inexplicable as the sunrise. It would not be her that lived that wondrous life.  
  
Yet, at the same time, it would be.  
  
She rested her head on her knees. It would take a long time to understand. Perhaps she never truly would. There was no way to be sure – even the King hadn’t seemed convinced of his own theory.  
  
 _But I know what I’ve seen._  
  
She remembered dreaming of the dark-haired boy grazing the corner of her mouth with his lips, then cupping her face and kissing her gently, thoroughly, lovingly.  
  
 _A light from the shadows._  
  
Light and warmth grew inside her too. She smiled, got to her feet and made as if to leave the stables, then turned and gave Annis a quick hug around her neck. The young horse snickered, took a lock of Beomia’s hair in her teeth and tugged sharply.  
  
Beomia squealed in indignation and smacked Annis’ nose – then something stirred in her memory, a sense that this had happened before. Or was it something she had seen in her dreams? She didn’t know. She stood patiently, waiting, but the half-remembered thought refused to surface.   
  
Annis stared at her, blue eyes wide and innocent and questioning.  
  
Eventually Beomia shook her head and dismissed the idea as foolishness. The night was still young yet, and there would be time for puzzles in the morning.  
  
*  
  
“Beomia?”  
  
She jumped violently at the soft voice that spoke from the shadows outside the stables. “Who’s there?”  
  
“Forgive me.” Aiken emerged from the gloom. “I didn’t intend to startle you.”  
  
Her heartbeat slowed down to a more normal rate. No longer frightened, but with a certain amount of caution, she asked, “Did you follow me?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Why? You had not spoken to me all evening, and then you presume to wander home after me...”  
  
“I was afraid for you.”  
  
“Afraid?” She tilted her head. “Why?”  
  
“That you may fall and do yourself a mischief in the dark. That you may become lost. That some other man may follow you with intentions less honourable than mine.” He licked his lips and averted his gaze. “I saw you talking with the young Captain.”  
  
“Eothain?” She suppressed the urge to laugh. “No, Eothain would not...he’d never...but then you know that. The two of you are friends, or so he tells me!”  
  
“We are. We are.” He rubbed two fingers along the line of his jawbone, clearly agitated. “Eothain is a wonderful man.”  
  
She frowned, and then understood. She took a step forwards. “Aiken...”  
  
“No, please, let me finish.” He swallowed. “I have not been honest with you. When you came to call on me a few days ago, I was happier than I can say, though it may not have seemed so. The truth is that my father...” He ran his hand through his hair. “My father...”  
  
She waited, but after a few moments he took a shuddering gasp of air, and she knew that he could not say more. Carefully, she reached out and touched his upper arm. “I know,” she said softly.  
  
“You know?” He looked down at her. “How could you? No, wait, I do not need to ask – Eothain has told you everything.”  
  
Anger coloured his voice for a moment, and instinctively her hand began to move. She watched, half-hypnotised, as it stroked down the length of his arm and came to rest on top of his hand. Her mouth dry, she slipped her fingers into the gaps between his own.  
  
“It isn’t Eothain’s fault,” she murmured. “I made him tell me.”  
  
“He should have known better.” For a moment he flexed his fingers so that their two hands were intertwined, then pulled away. “What must you think of me?”  
  
Shame swirled like nausea in her gut as she remembered the way she and Wulf had sniggered together over Aiken’s balding head and supposedly dull nature. She felt like a cruel child who had jabbed at a wounded hound for mere sport.   
  
 _But at least now I have the chance to make amends._  
  
She lifted her head and looked directly into his eyes. “I think you’re the bravest, most selfless man I’ve ever met.”  
  
His whole face seemed to widen in surprise. Slowly, as though afraid he might be burned, he lifted a hand and curled his fingers around the curve of her cheek. “Then you cannot have met many men,” he whispered.  
  
 _I do believe he is jesting. By Eorl, I never thought that was possible._  
  
He blinked. “Beomia, I...I am sorry.” His hand dropped back to his side. “Truly sorry.”  
  
“For what?”   
  
“This cannot continue.”  
  
“What cannot continue?” Panic contracted her chest. “Are you ending our betrothal?”  
  
He averted his eyes again. “For months I have courted you selfishly, with no thought to your happiness. I wanted to secure your hand before some other dashing young suitor succeeded in stealing your heart, and so I pursued you before you were ready. Now I am delaying and dallying and putting things off because I cannot bear the thought of you becoming a part of my life while my father still lives. We would have no peace; he would demand our attention constantly. I cannot subject you to that.” He glanced back at her. “Your father knows, and has been reassuring your mother than the marriage will take place, but none of us have dealt fairly by you. I am sorry. I – I release you.”  
  
“Release me?” She gaped stupidly.  
  
A small hollow smile lifted his lips but did not touch his eyes. “You cannot pretend that you ever wanted to marry me, surely? The dull balding carpenter more than twice your age?”  
  
The words were so close to her own that tears of guilt began to prickle in her throat and eyes. “Please...don’t...”  
  
“I will put it about that the broken engagement is my fault entirely; you need not fear for your reputation.” He took a shallow breath. “I...I would rather see you settled with someone who can make you happy than know you are mine yet long to be free.”  
  
His words had the air of a child reciting a lesson; she guessed he had been planning this speech for some time. “Is this why you were avoiding me?”  
  
He did not answer. She supposed he didn’t need to.  
  
For a time she stood there, her mind as blank as the yawning air that separated them. She knew she ought to say something, but as in the stables, words refused to come. Part of her was insisting that she should be happy – she had spent months longing for a way out of this engagement – but other thoughts and impulses were steadily strangling that obsolete idea. She was just beginning to learn about this man, to understand his history, his manner and his thinking. She was intrigued by him in a way she had never thought possible. At the same time she pitied him, even though she knew he would resent such an emotion. Yet it was not out of pity that she wanted to stay with him. Very suddenly, she had grown to admire this man. Certainly he was no Orvyn – but perhaps that was no bad thing. Perhaps steadiness and kindness and safety were not as dull as they sounded...and who was to say that there were not other, more exciting depths to this man, if she took the time to seek them out? A few days ago she would have scoffed if someone had suggested he might understand why she spent so much of her time in the stables, but understood he had – perhaps better than she had understood herself. She barely knew him, but the thought of never again glimpsing the thoughtful, intuitive man she had seen in the stable filled her with regret. With a surge of sudden determination, she realised she could no longer cling to the ghost of Orvyn and her love for him. Not now – not when she knew that, somewhere, in someone’s lifetime, they were to be given another chance. Why not another chance for Aiken, too?  
  
“No.”  
  
Somebody else seemed to speak the word for her. He blinked in surprise. She took a deep breath, her stomach twining itself into a knot, and repeated, “No.” She drew herself up and met his eyes. “I might have thought that a few months ago. Now, though...now...” Her words halted in her mouth. She cursed herself for a clumsy child – after his speech, what could she say to make him understand? “I was telling the truth when I said you were the bravest man I’ve ever met. It might have sounded silly. It wasn’t supposed to. I...”   
  
 _Slow down. Say what you mean._  
  
Her own voice in her head calmed her nerves. “I will not lie and say that I love you. I do not know you. I know things about you, but I speak to you so little – and the fault there is mine,” she added swiftly as he made to apologise. “I regret it now. I want to know you. I...I think I could love you. Would. Would love you, if I had the chance. That day in the stables, when I slept in the stall with Annis, and you and father found me, you understood why I was there and I don’t know how you knew, but you were right...” She stopped and forced herself not to babble. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel unwanted, or...or if I’ve pushed you away. I can’t imagine what you’ve suffered, and I’m sorry I never took the time to find out the truth.” She had a feeling she hadn’t quite conveyed what she wanted to say, but nonetheless pushed her hair off her face and finished, “I do not want to be...what was the word you chose? Released.”  
  
For a moment he seemed to consider her, then he nodded, a real smile breaking across his face. “That was indeed a poor choice of words on my part.” He moved his hand as though he intended to take hers, then seemed to change his mind. “I...well...you must know by now that I am not one for emotional displays. But your words have made me gladder than I can tell you. I had hardly dared to hope that you might agree to stay, given the choice.” His face sobered. “But my father...”  
  
“I will wait.”   
  
He shook his head. “It seems wrong, waiting for him to die so that I can get married.”  
  
“Then we will marry while he is still alive, and I will be his nurse for a while.” She did not want to, but felt that, as a wife-to-be, it was her duty to offer.  
  
 _Perhaps Aiken is beginning to influence me already._  
  
However, he was still frowning. “But if we were to have children...you wouldn’t have the time...”  
  
“Don’t worry so.” With a sudden rush of boldness, she took his hand and curled both of her own around it. “If the last year has taught me anything, it’s that there is no perfect time to do anything. Life will never be neat and tidy. There will always be troubles in the world and troubles in our own homes; it is how we face them that matters.”  
  
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly. “Quite the wise little woman, aren’t you?”  
  
“Hardly. I seem to have almost lost you. That was not so very wise.” She blushed, the blood burning under her skin. Next to Aiken she felt like a foolish little girl.  
  
“I think we should start again,” he smiled.  
  
“Start again?” she echoed, baffled.  
  
“Yes. We will pretend that I have never approached your parents – that we have just met, and know nothing about each other. We are simply a not-so-young man and a girl he badly wants to be his sweetheart.”  
  
She considered, and giggled. “Alright.”  
  
Behind them in the hills, the notes of a speedy reel drifted from the throat of someone’s fiddle. Aiken bowed. “May I have this dance?”  
  
Beomia offered him her arm. “I’d be delighted.”


	20. Smokescreen

“I don’t think you should go into school today.”  
  
Derry ignored his mother’s remark and stared steadily into his bowl of cornflakes.  
  
“You look pale,” she persisted. “And you’re quiet. You’ve barely said a word since last night.”  
  
He sucked on his teeth, trying to ignore the dull ache in his skull. His mother’s voice was grating on his nerves and needling away at a pain he was already on the point of being unable to bear. Even the pinkish morning light made his eyes hurt and his throat constrict with nausea.  
  
“You’ve got one of your headaches again, haven’t you?”  
  
“No,” he lied.  
  
A low nasal hissing told him she was breathing slowly, trying not to lose her temper. “Derry – sweetheart –”  
  
“Anyway,” he interrupted her, forestalling the arguments, “I can’t afford to miss school.”  
  
“Why not?” She sat down opposite him and reached across to stroke his arm. “One day really won’t make that much difference...”  
  
“It will. I’m behind with my work already.” He pulled away from her manicured fingers and began to shovel cereal into his mouth, forcing himself to chew and swallow, even though every instinct in his body protested.  
  
She made an impatient clicking noise with her tongue. “I knew it wasn’t a good idea for you to go back in January. I said it would be better if you forgot about it this year and start again in September, but oh no, you insisted you could do it, and now look at you! You’re making yourself ill!”  
  
“I’m alright.”  
  
“Rubbish! You’re always pushing yourself too hard – even in hospital, as soon as you could talk and think straight you wanted your books back so that you could start studying...”  
  
“Is it so wrong that I want to be normal?” he shot back.  
  
“When you’re so clearly not well, then yes, it is! Think about me, if not yourself-”  
  
“Oh, big surprise,” he snarled, getting up and seizing his schoolbag. “It’s all about you again.”  
  
“Derry Allerton, I am not driving you to school.”  
  
“Fine. I’ll get the bus.”  
  
“Don’t you dare-”  
  
“Bye, Mum.” He gulped down the last of his orange juice, dived into the hallway and slammed the kitchen door shut. Once he was out of sight, he slipped his hand into his pocket, retrieved his packet of painkillers and dry-swallowed two of them before his Mum could follow him out. He winced as they stuck in his throat, prodding at the sides of his gullet like a pair of bitter-tasting fingers. His temples throbbed. Briefly he leaned against the wall, eyes closed.  
  
Behind him, the handle on the kitchen door turned and squeaked. “Derry?”  
  
Reluctantly he turned back to his mother. “Yes?”  
  
Her mouth was slack and her eyes resigned. “I’ll drive you.”  
  
“Thanks,” he said, surprised.  
  
“But promise me – if it gets too bad – please, just phone me, and I’ll come and pick you up...”  
  
“Oh, stop it, Mum,” he snapped, irritation rising again.  
  
Tears welled in the lower rims of her eyes. “Derry – darling, please, I’m trying to compromise here – I know you aren’t well, I just want to help, but all you ever seem to do is push me away...”  
  
For an instant guilt sharpened his vision. He saw his mother not as a coiffed and suited embodiment of effusive emotions, but as a tired, anxious woman in her forties who only kept her life from scattering by gripping it with the very tips of her beautifully polished nails. Startled, he realised that under the bright makeup around her eyes lurked shadows as dark and ugly as his own. Tiny red capillaries were creeping to the surface of her skin, showing through the orange-tinted foundation like cracks in the glaze of a china vase. Grey hair was beginning to pepper the blonde. A tear escaped from the corner of her left eye, dragging a trail of mascara down her cheek with it. The divorce, the move, and her preoccupation with her son’s health had all taken their toll on her looks, and yet she maintained her smart veneer, donning expensive clothes and dousing her life’s problems in perfume and hairspray. For the first time in a long time, pity and something like affection towards his mother waved through him – and then the snarling painful creature in the corner of his skull gave another throb, and intolerance returned.  
  
“Whatever, Mum. I’m fine. Let’s go.”


	21. Realisation

_She smiled, got to her feet and made as if to leave the stables, then turned and gave Annis a quick hug around her neck. The young horse snickered, took a lock of Beomia’s hair in her teeth and tugged sharply.  
  
Beomia squealed in indignation and smacked Annis’ nose – then something stirred in her memory, a sense that this had happened before. Or was it something she had seen in her dreams? She didn’t know. She stood patiently, waiting, but the half-remembered thought refused to surface.   
  
Annis stared at her, blue eyes wide and innocent and questioning.  
  
Eventually Beomia shook her head and dismissed the idea as foolishness..._  
  
“Anna. Oi. Anna. Earth to Anna.”  
  
Louisa snapped her fingers under Anna’s nose; Anna jumped and dragged her thoughts back to the here and now.   
  
“What’s up?” Louisa sniggered. “Daydreaming about Loverboy?”  
  
“Not exactly.” Anna turned away and began to rearrange things on her desk, hoping that Louisa might get the hint and leave her alone to think.   
  
 _“From the ashes a fire shall be woken; a light from the shadows shall spring...”_  
  
She knew that phrase. It itched at the edges of her mind, together with an answering rhyme that had something to do with the crownless being king, but she couldn’t place it. If Derry didn’t recognise it either then she’d somehow have to sneak into the IT room at break and resort to Google, because it was driving her insane. Besides, once she knew where it came from, it might help her to understand the other thing, the thing she thought she knew already - but how could she? It couldn’t be right. It made her sick just to think about it.  
  
 _The young horse snickered, took a lock of Beomia’s hair in her teeth and tugged sharply...Beomia squealed in indignation and smacked Annis’ nose... Annis stared at her, blue eyes wide and innocent and questioning...blue eyes... those dancing eyes that always spoke of mischief... it was the eyes she couldn’t forget, the eyes staring up at her as her sister lay on the ground..._  
  
“Anna?”  
  
 _...those eyes, scared, helpless, beautiful...so innocent...so blue..._  
  
“Anna, are you OK? You look a bit weird.”  
  
Again the classroom shifted into focus around her, and she blinked. “What?”  
  
Louisa rolled her eyes. “God, what’s the matter with you all? Nat’s sulked off to the library, Derry’s wandered in without saying anything to either of us...”  
  
“Derry’s here?” asked Anna, sitting up.  
  
“Ooh, way to get your attention,” Louisa grinned, eyes sparkling. “Yes, he’s here – over by the radiator – doesn’t look like he’s in a good mood, though...”  
  
“Louisa, I’m really sorry, I’ll be back in a moment, there’s something I need to ask him,” Anna gabbled, pushing her chair back.   
  
“Fine then,” grumbled Louisa, pretending to pout. “Nice to know where your priorities lie!”  
  
Derry, though, did not look particularly pleased to see her.  
  
“Hey,” he said half-heartedly.  
  
“Hey yourself,” she returned. She noted his pale face and the dark circles under his eyes, and her sharp eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. He hated fuss, she knew. “Get the Maths past paper done?”  
  
“What? Oh, crap, no.” He rubbed his eyes and groaned. “Proust won’t mind, will he?”  
  
“Doubt it.” She sucked in her breath, suddenly horribly conscious of the way it rushed cold and dry over her teeth. It occurred to her that what she was about to tell him sounded completely insane, but she knew she had to do it anyway. He was as much a part of this mess as her. “Look, Derry...I had another dream last night...”  
  
He brightened up at that and leaned forward. “What happened?”  
  
“Beomia was in the stable with this strange man-”   
  
Derry raised his eyebrows and his mouth quirked upwards. “Yeah?”  
  
She giggled. “Stop it! Get your mind out of the gutter.” She bit her lip and sobered up. “This is going to sound completely mental so please don’t freak out, but I think I might have worked out why I’m having these dreams. Maybe.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Beomia and this man...they were talking...” She decided to sidestep the matter of the verse line she recognised for the time being and concentrate on the bigger issue. “Then he left, and Annis...Annis grabbed Beomia’s hair in her teeth and pulled it.”  
  
Derry frowned. “So?”  
  
“So, you remember what I was telling you the other day about Izzy pulling my hair?” Anna heard her voice trail into apology, but at the same time excitement was beginning to build up in her chest. It sounded ridiculous said out loud – and yet, for her at least, voicing it confirmed everything. She had known all along that she recognised the foal, and it explained everything, why she was having the dreams in the first place, why she kept on seeing the foal, the whole mystery. “And I said she used to do it all the time, and I hated it...”  
  
Derry’s frown deepened. “You think the horse is your sister?”  
  
“Yes...no...not exactly...I think she is to Izzy what Orvyn was to you...or maybe the other way around...”  
  
“You’re right, it does sound mental.” His voice was flat and dismissive, and he leant back against the radiator, clearly disappointed. “Did she say anything about Aiken?”  
  
“No.” Anna folded her arms, injured. “Don’t you even think it’s possible? It would explain everything – Derry, I’m right, I know I am...”  
  
“A minute ago you were saying it was mental!”  
  
“I said it sounds mental,” she protested, irritation rising. “I didn’t say that made it wrong. Anyway, why are you so sure? You’re not the one having the dreams, and you never met Izzy – how would you know?”  
  
“Because...a horse...I mean, come on!” He gesticulated hopelessly. “Why are  _you_  so sure?”  
  
“I just told you – I know!” She glanced across at the teacher’s desk, and realised that Mr. Proust was watching them closely. She lowered her voice. “Look, we’re going in circles.” Disappointment swirled in her mind, bitter and grey. She had expected excitement and support from Derry, or if not immediate belief then at least good-natured curiosity. His out-of-hand rejection of her theory weighed down on the enthusiasm that had begun to bud inside her, and she hesitated before adding, “There’s something else too.”  
  
“What?”  
  
His sullenness registered in her mind with more certainty. It wasn’t just tiredness. “I’ll tell you another time if you want,” she said gently.  
  
“Oh, not you too! I’ve already had my mother fussing after me today...”  
  
“Sorry, sorry!” She held up her hands.   
  
“It’s OK. What were you going to say?”  
  
She swallowed. “The man that Beomia was with...he said something I recognised, but I can’t place it.” Nervously she wound a strand of hair around her index finger. “‘From the ashes a fire shall be woken, a light from the shadows shall spring...’”  
  
Derry frowned again. “’Renewed shall be blade that was broken,’” he finished. “’The crownless again shall be King.’” He shook his head. “That can’t be right – you’re imagining things.”  
  
“I know what I heard! What’s it from?”  
  
“Anna, he can’t have said that – or if he did then it wasn’t a real vision. It’s impossible. Your mind’s playing tricks – imposing things from our world onto that one, or something...”  
  
“What are you saying? Do you think I’ve lost it?” she snapped.  
  
“No, but I think you’ve been through a hell of a lot and that the stress of exams on top of everything else might be getting to you – your mind’s started scrambling the visions, or the dreams, or whatever they were...”  
  
“Derry, it was real, it was just like all the other times!”  
  
“Maybe parts of it were, but trust me, there’s no way on this planet that whoever this guy was said that!”  
  
“Why not?” she demanded.   
  
“You really don’t recognise it?”  
  
“No!”  
  
He licked his lips. “Anna, it’s Tolkien.”


	22. Exams and Distractions

It was almost as if Izzy had died all over again.   
  
Anna drifted through the day feeling like her head was stuck just under the surface of some great body of water. She had been so sure – but how could she and Derry both be right? It made no sense. Every time she tried to reconcile the two ideas they pushed apart like magnets repelling one another. How could the world be Tolkien’s, and at the same time be home to a creature who was once her sister? She rejected Derry’s idea that she was splicing and superimposing elements of the two worlds onto each other. That didn’t feel right. The dream had been the same as all the others – so vivid that she could almost taste it, like being immersed in another reality. And yet a quick Google search at break time told her that the words were definitely Tolkien’s.  _FAMOUS QUOTES_ , proclaimed the website the search engine had led her to – and then, further down:  
  
 _“All that is gold does not glitter,  
Not all those who wander are lost;  
The old that is strong does not wither,  
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.  
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,  
A light from the shadows shall spring;  
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,  
The crownless again shall be King.” – From The Fellowship of the Ring, by JRR Tolkien. Verses apply to Aragorn (King Elessar)._  
  
She remembered the poem now, though she hadn’t read Tolkien in years. Her mind dove back to her memories of reading it for the first time, into her smoky imaginings of the scene in the inn at Bree, when Frodo and the hobbits first met Aragorn. She re-read the words on the screen and something else nudged at her memory then – something about that final phrase.  _Verses apply to Aragorn (King Elessar)._  
  
Suddenly, as if deliberately supplying her with the answer, her mind played out part of her dream once again – Beomia in the stables with the stranger, giving a gasp of shock and stepping back as she realised who he was; the hooded man who could tame Brego when no-one else could get near; the involuntary whisper of dawning comprehension.  
  
“King Elessar.”  
  
She managed to close down the computer and get herself to the girls’ bathroom before heaving panic overcame her and she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet.  
  
*  
  
“Anna, you’re being really quiet,” said Louisa at lunch. “Are you OK?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“She’s fallen out with Derry,” Nat put in, not entirely successful in keeping the spite out of her voice.  
  
“Oh, Nat, shut it...”  
  
And they fell to bickering amongst themselves, and Anna slipped back into the uncomfortable embrace of her thoughts.  
  
*  
  
By afternoon registration Derry had gone home, confirming Anna’s suspicions that he wasn’t well. A small guilty niggle wormed its way through her haze of confusion and told her that she should have waited to tell him her thoughts about Izzy. He didn’t need anything else to worry about, not the way things were with his mother.  
  
She resolved to ring him later that evening.  
  
*  
  
“Derry?”  
  
His mother was knocking softly on his bedroom door. He cracked open his eyes and shifted under his cocoon of covers.  
  
“Derry, it’s Anna on the phone for you.”  
  
He sighed, trying to avoid setting off the dull waves of nausea that pulsed through him every time he moved his head. He didn’t have the energy for a debate about Anna’s latest dream – if truth be told, he didn’t want to think about it. The idea that her sister could somehow have become a horse in another life was ludicrous but at the same time frightening – the thought of it made his insides dissolve into liquid. And the whole Tolkien thing...he couldn’t get it out of his mind. It made no sense.   
  
Pain throbbed in his skull. “Tell her I’ll phone her later.”  
  
*  
  
Anna clicked the phone back into the receiver, stung. Even at his worst, Derry had never refused to talk to her. More often than not he had asked her over to keep him company – she remembered the two of them curling up together on the bed once after he got a headache in the middle of a study session, and his mother finding them and being horrified. Her mouth twitched at the memory, then slackened again at the thought of Derry’s pale face this morning.  
  
 _Oh, I hope you’re alright,_  she thought, fingers of worry plucking at her gut.  
  
*  
  
Derry, though, was not at school the next day, nor the day after – the very last day of term, at least for the Year Elevens. Lessons were cancelled for the afternoon and a party was held in the assembly hall.  
  
“Well, they  _call_  it a party,” said Nat disdainfully, eyeing the tables of sausage rolls and non-alcoholic punch, and the posters on the wall that proclaimed the teams for games. “I mean, how old do they think we are, seven?”  
  
“I think it’s brilliant,” giggled Louisa, reading the activities list. “It’s like all those Christmas parties they used to give us in Infants – look, we get to play Stations, and Flour Pie, and Musical Chairs and everything!”  
  
Anna smiled. For her, the games and the party food had awoken an aching yawn of nostalgia, but for once it wasn’t painful; if anything it was a welcome distraction from the confusion of the last two days. She remembered her and Izzy donning their best flouncy frocks to go their friends’ birthday parties and being fussed over by their parents and grandmother, being told that they looked like a pair of little angels. She remembered making herself sick by eating too many pineapple-and-cheese sticks. She remembered how desperately it had mattered that their team won the games, however much the adults tried to instil in them that it was taking part that counted.  
  
Clearly that was a lesson that most of the boys in her year had forgotten, she thought with a wry grin as Paul Thomas and Alan Harte attempted to wrestle one another off the last remaining seat in Musical Chairs.  
  
“Enough, enough, enough!” bellowed Mr. Proust eventually, when the contest threatened to come to blows. “We’ll call that one a draw, I think...”  
  
The afternoon passed in a pleasant haze of silliness, but towards the end an air of sadness crept into the room and spread through the group. Some of the girls grew tearful. Even the boys became gruffly sentimental, giving awkward hugs to their team mates and wistfully asking one another, “Remember when...?”  
  
“Weird, isn’t it?” whispered Louisa to Anna when Mr. Proust gathered them all together at the end for one final talking-to. “Now we’ve got to it, I mean. Like it’s all slipping away.”  
  
Anna blinked and stared at her friend, surprised to have her own exact feelings put into words, but she didn’t have chance to reply before Mr. Proust cleared his throat and clapped his hands.  
  
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, that, as they say, is that,” he announced, smiling. “A lot of you will be back in September to study for A-levels; a fair proportion of you will not. For some of you, I know this is going to be a wrench; no doubt others see it as a merciful release. I won’t keep you long – I’m well aware of the time – but whatever your feelings about today may be, on behalf of myself and all other members of staff, I want to say thank you. I’m not going to pretend that this year has been an easy ride – who can forget the great inquisition we teachers undertook, trying to discover which of you lovely young people adorned the music room wall with the slogan ‘Mr. Basford is a fat Basford?’” A nervous laugh ran through the group. “Not to mention the incident with the salamanders in the science lab,” he continued, to more guilty laughter. “But there’s no need to worry yourselves about that now – my hair turned grey a long time ago.” He smiled at them. “On the whole, Year Eleven, you have been a joy. I will miss you.”  
  
Silence fell. Anna swallowed and was surprised to find her throat obstructed by tears.  
  
“Oh, and please do me one last favour,” Mr. Proust added, twinkling. “Remember that this is the start of study leave, not an extended summer holiday.” Groans echoed around the room. “I know you don’t want to be reminded of it at the moment, but you’ll thank me for it later – and so will your results, come August. I wish you all the very best of luck, ladies and gentlemen.”  
  
Anna got to her feet amid calls of “Thanks, sir” and “See you next year, sir!” She smiled and took a long look around the assembly hall she had spent so many hours in with these people, bored out of her skull. The wooden boards on the wall gaped back at her, bare and forlorn.  
  
“There we go, then,” sighed Nat. “End of an era.”  
  
“Not for us,” Louisa corrected her. “We’re back in September, assuming we get the grades.”  
  
“Well, yes, but it won’t be the same. Half the year’s leaving.”   
  
“Thank goodness,” added Anna, eyeing the scrum of boys that had just tackled Mr. Proust to the ground in an exuberant show of gratitude and affection.  
  
“Don’t be like that,” Louisa complained. “Nat’s right. It will be different.”  
  
“I suppose so...”  
  
“Nat?”  
  
The three girls turned; Jason Witfleet, the Form Captain, was standing behind them shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. Anna grinned. She liked Jason – he was shy but quietly determined, and had been one of the few people who hadn’t irritated the hell out of her that first term after Izzy died.  
  
“Sorry to bother you,” he muttered, his curly hair flopping into his eyes. “Er – can I have a word?”  
  
“I’m kind of in a rush-” Nat started to say, but he interrupted her.  
  
“It won’t take a minute. I was just wondering if you had plans for the Prom?”  
  
His hopeful tone set alarm bells ringing inside Anna – she already had a fair idea what Nat’s response would be.   
  
“I’m going, if that’s what you mean,” replied Nat.  
  
“Well...do you want to go...you know...like, together?”  
  
Nat frowned, and then comprehension dawned. “Oh – right – er...”  
  
“If you don’t want to then I understand,” he added hastily, though his brown eyes were already full of disappointment.  
  
“No, no, it’s not that,” she replied quickly – and untruthfully, Anna guessed. “It’s just that I’ve already made plans.”  
  
“Oh. OK. No problem. Cool.” He glanced sideways, clearly looking for a way out of the situation. “Er – suppose I’ll see you there then. Good luck with exams,” he added in a gabble, then turned away and hurriedly joined another group meandering their way out of the hall.  
  
“Why did you do that?” Louisa hissed, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You don’t have plans – and he’s really cute!”  
  
“What’s it to you?” shot back Nat.  
  
Louisa planted her hands on her hips. “Nat, I can always tell when you know you’re wrong, because you start breaking out the world’s most pathetic comebacks. You should have said yes.”  
  
“Don’t be daft! Anyway, can you imagine me with him?” She forced a laugh. “Curls Squared or what? All the babies would come out looking like poodles...”  
  
“This is nothing to do with babies,” said Louisa sternly. She shot a hesitant glance at Anna, who was listening curiously, before ploughing on. “You still like... _him_ , don’t you?”  
  
“Shut it,” Nat warned her.  
  
“Nat, this has to stop. Enough’s enough, you know D-...er, I mean, you know  _he_  doesn’t like you that way...”  
  
 _Louisa, you have to be the least subtle person in the world,_  Anna thought with a sinking heart as Nat snapped, “Oh, for God’s sake, leave it! It’s not like Anna doesn’t know what you’re on about anyway.”  
  
“Oh. Right.” Louisa looked crestfallen. “Sorry, guys.”  
  
“It’s OK,” said Anna, before Nat had the chance to start sniping again. “Look, we haven’t done anything just the three of us for ages – how about we go for a nice meal in town after exams at some point?”  
  
Eager discussions of this plan prevented any further argument; at the school gates they stopped, fell silent, stared at each other – and burst out laughing.  
  
“See you soon,” grinned Anna, reaching out to hug them both.  
  
“See you for the English exam,” groaned Louisa.  
  
“Ugh, don’t!”  
  
They held each other tight for a few moments, then let go and went their separate ways.  
  
*  
  
The dialling tone seemed to go on forever, thought Anna later that evening, waiting for one of the Allertons to pick the phone up.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
It was Derry’s Mum, she realised, vaguely disappointed. “Hi, Mrs. Allerton; it’s Anna. Is Derry there?”  
  
“Just a moment, Anna.” A pause. “He’s asleep, love. I’ll get him to ring you back.”  
  
“OK, thanks.”  
  
“Good luck with the revision.”  
  
“Thank you. Bye.”  
  
She hung up, tempted to try his mobile – but if he really was asleep then it seemed unfair to wake him.  
  
*  
  
A pattern set in. Anna would lie in the garden, soaking up the sun and trying to revise. Her mind would stray onto her sister, the white foal, and the strange other world that she didn’t dare to name as Middle-earth. Anxiety and confusion would distract her, and she would attempt to phone Derry, who invariably did not answer. To take her mind off his extended silence, she would lie in the garden, soaking up the sun and trying to revise.  
  
She saw him briefly on the day of their first exam as everyone hovered nervously outside the assembly hall.  
  
“How are you?”   
  
“Not great,” he admitted reluctantly.  
  
He didn’t look it either, she noted with worry. “Stressed?”  
  
“I think that’s part of it.” He gave her a tired smile. “Definitely starting to feel the pressure. Maybe Mum was right – taking things slower might have been a good idea.”  
  
Encouraged by this momentary flash of the vulnerability he kept hidden from all but her, she squeezed his hand. “You can do it,” she told him. “You’ll be fine.”  
  
He rested his cheek on top of her head and said nothing. Anna wound her fingers into his and nestled against him. She had been planning to bring up her dream again, but sensed that more badgering on that subject was the last thing he needed.  
  
*  
  
She soon settled into the rhythm of the exam routine; her hard work over the course of the year had paid off, and she found herself able to get away with comparatively little revision. This, however, left her with a good deal of free time. As much as she tried not to think about it, images of the white foal (almost a filly now) and the rolling green country it inhabited plagued her thoughts, along with memories of her sister and snatches of that Tolkien refrain she had now learned by heart. They swirled in her mind like a cocktail of oil and water, stubbornly refusing to blend. She had intended to leave all investigations until after GCSEs and work on new theories with Derry, but her friend was still maintaining his wall of silence, except when they saw each other in school. Initially she wondered how much of it was a desire to hide from the implications of her latest vision, but every time she saw him he looked paler and more tired, and she had to admit that his health was likely a part of the issue too.  
  
 _I just wish he’d talk to me – properly_ , she found herself thinking after trying and failing to catch his attention after the ICT exam.  _He never used to mind sharing all this with me._  
  
To distract herself from the hurt she pretended she didn’t feel, she took to retreading old ground, scouring the internet for articles on past lives and reincarnation. She bookmarked several pages dealing with the concept of people coming back to life as animals, but none of them mentioned the possibility of a person being reborn into another world.  
  
 _Especially not a world that someone’s made up,_  she thought wryly.  
  
For her mind had gradually and independently reached the conclusion that Middle-earth was indeed the world she saw in her dreams. The idea sat uncomfortably with her, and she tried her best not to think about it consciously – it made her head whirl and her stomach roil – but even though she hated to admit it, it made sense. Why else would a man named King Elessar appear in a stable, spouting verses from Tolkien? And besides, the city, with its wooden houses, fair-skinned occupants and multitude of horses, could so easily be Edoras.  
  
An idea struck her, and she typed  _parallel universe_  into the search engine.  
  
 _The universe is constantly and infinitely splitting ... Every possible outcome of an experimental measurement occurs, each one in a parallel universe_ ,claimed one site.  
  
 _There may be an infinite number of parallel universes, and we just happen to live in one of them,_  another informed her.  _These other universes contain space, time and strange forms of exotic matter. Some of them may even contain you, in a slightly different form._  
  
She smiled humourlessly at that, and read on.  
  
 _Astonishingly, scientists believe that these parallel universes exist less than one millimetre away from us._  
  
She groaned and dropped her head onto her arms. It was too much to take in. Did all this mean that everything existed somewhere, in one universe or another? Maybe that was the explanation – it was impossible for anyone to ever imagine anything new or original, because all possible worlds and people already existed, just out of reach. Was that why Middle-earth haunted her dreams? Was it real, unbeknownst even to Tolkien?  
  
“Ugh, I can’t take this in,” she moaned aloud, switching off the monitor. “It’s too much to think about!”  
  
“What’s that, dear?” her grandmother asked, drifting into the study.  
  
“Oh – nothing, Grandma. Just...just Physics revision.”  
  
The old lady clucked and tutted, shaking her head. “You’re working yourself far too hard, young lady. It’s about time you had a break; I’ll go and make you a nice cup of tea.”  
  
When her grandmother had bustled off to the kitchen, Anna flopped backwards into the leather spinning chair and blew upwards, scattering strands of dark hair across her face. “Hey, Izzy?” she said softly, addressing the ceiling. “If this is your idea of a joke, then you’ve got one sick sense of humour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mr. Basford joke has its origins in _Teechers_ , a play by John Godber.
> 
> Parallel universe quotes were taken from the BBC Science website, but this fic was ten years old at the time of reposting to AO3, so they may well have moved or been taken down.


	23. An Idea

“Aiken, you are an honest man and so I in turn will be honest with you. This arrangement worries me. It was not a part of the agreement.”  
  
“I know. Beomia...”  
  
“...is young and does not know to what she commits herself,” Aldhelm said sharply, glancing over at his daughter.  
  
Beomia, sitting on a stool by the fireplace, abandoned her pretence at not listening to the conversation. “Forgive me, Father, but I believe I do.”  
  
“I respect your bravery in telling me the truth about your father, but I will not release my daughter to play nursemaid to a man like that,” continued Aldhelm, ignoring her. Beomia’s skin prickled with annoyance, but she held her peace. “To you, as a husband and suitor, I have no objection. I am more than willing to have her marry you, but you have always made it clear that you do not expect your father to live much longer. Why the sudden hurry?”  
  
“It’s my doing, Father,” Beomia put in. “Please don’t blame Aiken. I told you, I volunteered.”  
  
“Hold your tongue, daughter,” Aldhelm snapped. “This does not concern –”  
  
“Don’t go saying that this doesn’t concern me!” she returned angrily, folding her arms. “Might I remind you that this is my marriage you are discussing?”  
  
Aiken’s mouth twitched, and he hastily turned his face away from Aldhelm.  
  
“Your marriage will take place, rest assured of that,” her father scowled. “But not while Ida still lives.”  
  
Aiken bowed his head, admitting defeat. For an instant Beomia felt a flash of irritation with him for not arguing, then realised he was probably wise not to antagonise her father, who remained unconvinced that the match was a good idea.  
  
“Very well,” she conceded, swallowing a retort and getting to her feet. “No doubt the pair of you still have things to discuss; I am going for a walk.”  
  
“Please, wait a moment,” Aiken called. He looked back at Aldhelm, a doubtful frown on his face. “Aldhelm – I don’t want you to interpret this the wrong way...”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“I understand that you don’t want the marriage to take place straight away. However, if Beomia agrees to it, I’d like to arrange the handfasting ceremony for as soon as possible. It isn’t that I doubt your word on the subject of our engagement,” he added hastily as Aldhelm’s face creased. “However, this has been an informal arrangement for some time now. People may begin to talk.”  
  
Beomia’s heart skittered with anticipation and nerves. The handfasting ceremony was the declaration that would bind a couple together; afterwards, the only things that could negate it were the refusal of the bride’s father to give his daughter to the groom on the day of the marriage, or the production of an existing spouse on the part of either bride or groom.  
  
Aldhelm stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “True enough – although the handfasting rarely takes place when no date is set for the marriage.”  
  
“I know. But the circumstances here are somewhat unusual, don’t you agree?”  
  
He sighed. “I still cannot understand the rush. Bee?”  
  
“I’m willing,” she nodded.   
  
Aldhelm spread his hands. “Then I raise no objections.”  
  
The two of them fell to discussing dates, and Beomia, deciding that her presence was no longer required, slipped out of the door.  
  
The sky over Edoras was a pale shade of blue, streaked with the pink of early evening. The grey haze that had clouded her mind since morning began to lift. It was hard to feel anxious on a day like this, with the warm air smooth against her face and the sun smiling lazily as it settled in the west. Even so, her dream still played on her mind. The images had been sharper and clearer than ever, more vivid even than real life. The spoken words had been unmistakeable.  
  
 _“You think the horse is your sister?”_  
  
It was a bizarre idea, she had to admit – but no stranger than talking to King Elessar in the stables, and certainly no stranger than the ideas he had mentioned there. In an odd way it almost fitted; after all, it slotted in neatly with his theory that – what had he said? – Annis’ soul had lived before.  
  
She stopped and tugged her fingers through her tangles. Nearby, a stray dog got to its feet and wagged its tail, perhaps thinking she was about to feed him some scraps.  
  
“What bothers me,” she said aloud, “is how this might fit in with Orvyn and I.”  
  
The dog cocked its head appealingly, then gave up on her and slunk away between two houses. She paid it no heed, trying to unravel the knot of thoughts in her mind. It seemed too much of a coincidence that her betrothed should be sent to Anna, and Anna’s sister sent here to her – not to mention that they should all be aware of each other and dreaming of each other’s worlds. There had to be some purpose to it, some elusive logic somewhere, but it evaded her grasp. They were all linked, the six of them – her and Anna, Derry and Orvyn, Izzy and Annis – both to their other-worldly counterparts and to each other. Why, though? Like so many of her experiences and discoveries of late, it made no sense.  
  
The fact that Anna dreamed of her had not really come as a shock. Whether Anna knew that she, Beomia, also dreamed of their world, she had no idea – and suddenly she was struck by an intriguing possibility. All their contact had so far been involuntary. Was there any way, she wondered, to control this bizarre conduit between them? Could she send a message to Anna, to let her know that her sister – or the creature that had once been her sister – was happy and well-cared for? She wasn’t sure. And even if she were successful, she’d have no way of knowing that her message had got through.  
  
 _Still, I have nothing to lose by trying._  
  
She resolved to attempt it the very next time she was with Annis.


	24. Collapse

Anna bit down on the end of her pencil. The varnish cracked in her mouth like a sugar coating; she tasted the dusty sweetness of the wood and the bitter metallic musk of the lead.   
  
 _“Overleaf is a table showing the national minimum wage for people of different ages,”_  she read, and flipped over the paper to check. Sure enough, the table was there. She carried on.  _"Tom is an 18-year-old student. He works part-time for 12 hours each week and is paid the national minimum wage. He saves one quarter of his earnings every week so he can buy an MP3 player. The MP3 player costs £132. How many weeks does Tom have to save so that he can buy the MP3 player?”  
  
Not a bloody clue,_ was her first thought.  
  
 _Calm down,_  was her second.  _You can do this. Last exam. Deep breath. Nearly there._  
  
A few seats in front of her, Derry shuffled and put down his pencil with a sigh. Anxiety twisted her gut – she had noticed he looked awful as they were waiting for the exam – but she forced herself to concentrate. All she had to do was get through the next twenty minutes. She only had three questions left. When they were done, she could worry about Derry to her heart’s content.  
  
 _Right. It’s just division and multiplication dressed up a bit, she told herself firmly. If minimum wage is £4.60 an hour, you need to start by multiplying that by twelve, and that will give you how much he earns each week..._  
  
Unbidden, the image of Annis out on the grassy plains of her homeland rose in her mind, and she squashed the thought determinedly. If now was not the time to be thinking about Derry then it certainly wasn’t the time to be thinking about her sister.  
  
 _4.6 x 12 is 55.2...now I need 55.2 divided by 4..._  
  
Again Annis nudged at her thoughts, together with the echo of a little boy’s laughter. She felt her grip on the reality of her exam slipping as her mind tugged her into that mysterious other world... _no,_  she told herself, yanking her concentration back.  _Not now._  
  
But her mind was insistent.  _“Bee! Bee, come on, come and play!”  
  
“Not yet – give me a moment...”_  
  
Horrified, Anna gripped at the edge of her desk, as though that would keep her rooted in her own reality. Panic warred against waves of happiness and relaxation emanating from some part of her she hadn’t known existed. She experienced a strange sensation like being partly submerged in water, with the current tugging her in two directions at once, and at the same time being sharply conscious of the exam room around her. The whitewashed walls, bare of all distractions, the cool ticking of the clock at the front, and the scratching of pens and pencils on paper all magnified in her perception – and then in an instant they were gone.  
  
It wasn’t like the dreams. The images were blurred and fragmented. Wulf was shrieking and being chased by an older man – Aiken, she assumed – and Annis pranced nearby. She heard herself – no, Beomia – laughing, but the sound was muffled, as though she heard it from a great distance away or through a wall. Suddenly the big gelding was there as well, and then it was gone...Wulf caught at her skirts as he tore away from Aiken...another horse whinnied and harrumphed...and through it all she felt wave after pulsating wave of happiness and affection.  
  
"Look...she’s alright...she’s happy...we all are...we’re looking after her...” she heard Beomia say.  
  
“Bee, who are you talking to?”  
  
“Oh – only myself...”  
  
And then with a jerk akin to waking from a dream about falling and realising that in fact she was safe in her own bed, Anna’s awareness of her own world returned. She gave a sharp gasp, then hastily disguised it as a cough as her classmates shot her puzzled glances. In front of her, Derry turned in his seat.   
  
 _OK?_  he mouthed.  
  
She nodded, noting again how pale and drawn his face looked. He gave her a wan smile and went back to his paper.  
  
 _Good God,_  she thought, drawing a shaky breath.  _What in the world was that?_  
  
“Fifteen minutes left,” called Mr. Proust from the front of the room, pulling her attention back to the most pressing of her current problems. Her heart bounded as she scanned the remaining questions. Tom and his MP3 player were almost done, but that still left a complex trigonometry problem and an evil-looking quadratic equation. Adrenaline coursed up from her stomach and spread in a tingling rush down her arm to her hand, lending it an impossible speed as she scribbled her calculations.   
  
 _Nearly there,_  she chanted to herself, repeating the refrain so much that it became almost meaningless.  _Nearly there, nearly there, nearly there..._  
  
“Five more minutes,” announced Mr. Proust as she scrawled her answer to the final question. Her heart slowed.  _Nearly there. No, not nearly. Done. Finished. The end of GCSEs._  
  
There was time for a quick skimming check of the problems she wasn’t so sure she’d got right before the familiar call of “Pens and pencils down, please” drifted from the front, and Year Eleven of Lowood School heaved a collective sigh. For the vast majority, this was the last exam. Anna had expected relief, but felt only a creeping numbness and an odd sense of anticlimax. The surge of giddiness she had waited for didn’t come – instead, her peculiar vision tugged at the edge of her mind, nagging like a viral infection that wouldn’t go away. Still, she’d have time to think about it when she got home, she told herself as the other two invigilators marched up and down the room collecting papers. Mr. Proust stood at the front, beaming.  
  
“I hope that went well for everybody,” he said as the papers were put into his hands. “For those of you who are finished – congratulations. For those who are not – I think that’s just the Drama students, am I right? – do not despair; the end is nigh, as they say!” He bounced the Maths papers up and down on the desk to straighten the edges of the pile, then tucked them under his arm and announced, “You may go!”  
  
There was the inevitable rumble of chairs being scraped along the linoleum and the rising murmur of nervous conversation. Behind her, Anna heard a couple of half-hearted cheers from some of the boys, and she smiled in spite of herself. Across the room, Louisa and Nat were battling their way towards her through the crowd – and in front of her, Derry got slowly to his feet.  
  
Why her eyes were suddenly drawn to him she couldn’t remember afterwards, but she felt a lurching sickness in her stomach as she saw his knees buckle, and he crumpled to the floor as though someone had kicked his ankles from under him. His chair broke his fall, and for a moment he lolled against it like a ragdoll – then Mr. Proust was there with his arm around his waist, obscuring him from view, and she’d darted back across the room before she was aware of her feet moving.  
  
“Derry –”  
  
“He’ll be alright, Miss Murphy. Give him a bit of space.”  
  
Derry shifted in Mr. Proust’s arms, and his eyelids flickered. Something seemed to be stuck in her throat. Louisa’s hand gripped her shoulder.  
  
“Sir, is there anything we can do?” asked Nat, clearly shaken.  
  
Panic pulsed through every nerve in Anna’s body, but with a massive effort of will she quelled it. Derry’s hand hung limp near her foot; she crouched down and took it, stroking her thumb gently across his knuckles.  
  
“The best thing you three can do at the moment is leave him alone,” Mr. Proust told them, an unusual terseness in his voice.  
  
“But sir...” began Anna, ready to argue.  
  
“A glass of water, if you please, Miss Pinder,” he requested of one of the other invigilators. “Anna, Louisa, Nathalie – I want the three of you to go to Matron. Explain what has happened and ask her to come up here as quickly as she can.”  
  
“Can’t I stay?” asked Anna, looping her fingers through Derry’s.  
  
Mr. Proust shook his head firmly. “I don’t doubt your good intentions, Miss Murphy, but we need as few people in here as possible. Don’t worry; he’ll be alright.”  
  
“Anna, come on,” said Louisa gently, tugging at her sleeve. “Let’s do what he says. We need to get help.”   
  
Anna squeezed Derry’s hand and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. She felt as though a layer of gauze had been laid across her vision. Everyone and everything but Derry seemed somehow removed from reality. Her friend’s collapse seemed to have knocked several layers of sensitivity off the top of her mind; she knew she has plenty to worry about, but thinking about her problems was like bouncing off the walls of a padded room. They repelled her without hurting. She was barely aware of standing in Matron’s office, letting Nat and Louisa explain the situation, and didn’t notice that she had been dragged outside until Louisa pushed her down onto their usual bench in the playground, and Nat sat next to her and put her arm around her waist – and then a searing lump formed in her chest, and the moment she took a breath, it exploded. Crashing sobs racked her body. Louisa perched on the arm of the bench, murmuring nonsense and stroking her hair. Nat wrapped her fingers around her wrist. With her free hand she clung onto the bench as she had clung onto the exam desk only half an hour earlier, desperate for something to keep her anchored in reality.  
  
“It’s OK,” she heard her friends whispering. “It’s OK.”  
  
But the two words meant as little as her own silent refrain in the exam room of “Nearly there, nearly there.” It wasn’t OK. How could it be OK? Derry, her rock, her best friend, was ill, and she had ignored it, thinking there would be plenty of time after exams to get to the bottom of his mysterious silence.  
  
After a time she cried herself out, and she choked on her own breath, drained.   
  
“Ready to talk?” asked Louisa softly.  
  
Her instinctive response was “no,” but the word stuck in her mouth. A painful twinge of conscience pierced her haze of panic and anxiety. She realised that, for a long time, she had shut Louisa and Nat out of her life – ever since she lost her sister. Impatient with their mollycoddling, she had avoided imparting any kind of emotional confidence to them, and had come to rely on Derry – yet she had known these two far longer. Besides, Derry was their friend too. Perhaps she owed them some sort of explanation.  
  
“Sorry, guys,” she mumbled, scrubbing at her eyes.  
  
“For what?” asked Louisa, giving her a playful push.  
  
“I don’t know. Everything.”  
  
“I’m still none the wiser, but never mind.” Louisa wriggled into the gap between Anna and the arm of the bench. “That can wait. Tell us about Derry. You must know something about what went on in there.”  
  
“A bit.” Anna hedged. Derry had trusted her to keep his injury and home life a secret, but surely now he couldn’t deny that something was wrong. Even so, she was reluctant to tell them everything. “He’s...he’s not well.”  
  
“You don’t say.”  
  
Anna smiled at Nat’s attempted flippancy. “I can’t go into loads of detail because he asked me not to tell anyone, but he’s...he’s been getting worse for a while now. I’ve tried to talk to him about it, but he just ignores me...” Her voice wobbled in spite of herself. “I don’t understand – he always told me everything before...”  
  
Again Louisa curled a hand around her shoulder. “It can’t be easy – for him or you.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Is it exams that have made him worse?”  
  
“I don’t know. He’s barely told me anything for ages.” It had crossed her mind that part of his silence might have been down to her seemingly insane revelation about her sister, but that was something she couldn’t even begin to explain to Nat and Louisa.  
  
“Is that why he takes fewer classes than the rest of us?” asked Nat suddenly.  
  
“Yeah – so he doesn’t overwork himself.” Anna swallowed. “He missed all of the first term of this year, he was really behind.”  
  
“Bless him,” sighed Louisa.  
  
For the first time, Anna giggled. “Don’t let him catch you saying that. He hates sympathy. I should know.” She sighed and rubbed her temples. “I just wish he’d talk to me again – not that we haven’t been speaking at all, but...you know. It’s not like it was.”  
  
“Is he going to be OK?”  
  
“No idea, Nat.” She bit her lip. “No idea.”


	25. The First Through the Wardrobe

He heard their voices, but dimly, as though his ears had been stuffed with cotton wool. He tried to open his eyes. His lids were heavy. He felt sick.  
  
Her hand was withdrawn, leaving only a cool gap of air, and he tried to call out to get her to stay. He longed for her slender arms to wrap themselves around his neck, for her forehead to press against his. He wanted to cry into her neck the same way he had done in the first few months they had known each other. He turned his head and forced his eyes open, blinking, trying to shout for her – but his jaw felt like it had been stuck with paste.  
  
“Easy, now, Derry. Steady. Steady, lad.”  
  
Proust. That was who held him. He struggled to sit up, but the floor rolled under him and he somehow ended up horizontal. Proust’s hand cupped the back of his head.   
  
“What did I just say? Go easy.”  
  
“Anna...”   
  
“I sent her off to get Matron,” he said gently.  
  
Derry shut his eyes again briefly and took a few deep breaths, then heaved himself into a sitting position. The room around him performed a sickening loop-the-loop.  
  
“Head on your knees,” Proust instructed, and Derry complied, feeling dazed and stupid.  
  
Time blurred for a short while. Someone forced a glass of water into his hands, and he was helped into a chair. Matron and Proust peppered him with questions.  
  
“Have you eaten today?”  
  
He honestly couldn’t remember.  
  
“Have you stuck to the recommended dosage with your painkillers?”  
  
He was fairly sure he had, yes.  
  
“Derry,” said Mr. Proust with a sudden sharpness, “how much sleep have you been getting recently?”  
  
He blinked. “Er...not much...”  
  
“That’s what I thought,” said Proust grimly. “You’ve been working instead of getting the sleep you need, haven’t you?”  
  
Defensive anger flared through his grogginess. “I had to...”  
  
“Your mother told me your headaches have been getting worse.”  
  
“Oh.” Irritation needled at his gut. “But I asked her not to say anything.”  
  
Matron made an impatient clicking noise with her tongue. “Can I leave him with you, sir? He’s clearly coherent again, and I’ve got a Year Seven down in my office who’s hurling up everything she’s eaten in the last twenty-four hours...”  
  
Derry let out an involuntary groan of disgust. Proust chuckled.  
  
“Yes, yes, of course. I think he’s coming round but I’ll keep him here a while longer, just to be on the safe side.”  
  
She shuffled off, her sensible flat pumps scuffing along the hard flooring. For some reason the sound set Derry’s teeth on edge.  
  
“Here.” Proust pushed the water glass towards him again. “Just sip it gently. It’ll calm you down – quite a way to end the exam, eh?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“You should have let me know you were struggling,” he told him, a more serious note in his voice.   
  
“I wasn’t – well, I didn’t think it was that bad.” Derry took a gulp of water, his head beginning to clear properly now. “My Mum’s been fussing for weeks.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“I didn’t want to get behind. I mean, I’m already taking extra GCSEs next year, to make up for the ones I haven’t done this time around. I’ll have enough on. I didn’t want to back out.”  
  
“Stubborn fool,” tutted Proust. “Your health should have always been your primary concern, never mind all this rubbish about getting behind. Given what you’ve been through, it’s astounding that you’ve managed to get to this stage so quickly – I can’t help but admire your determination – but forget about your pride for a moment and use your common sense. Less than a year ago you were bedbound. You’re still not operating at one hundred per cent – no, hear me out,” he added as Derry made an indignant noise of protest. “Even more than your average teenager, you need your rest. Do you promise me, as your concerned teacher who needs no more grey hairs, to make more of an effort to get it from now on?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“Good.” He scrutinised him, bushy eyebrows beetling. “Now, is that all there is to it?”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“Your sudden...ah...regression. You haven’t been yourself for weeks.”  
  
“Well, you know about my headaches. I suppose they’re tied up with not getting enough sleep.”  
  
“Most likely – although if they persist once your sleeping patterns are back to normal...”  
  
“I know, I know, go to the hospital.” Derry gave a wry grin. “I’ve had this lecture from my Mum.”  
  
“I’m glad to hear it. An excellent lady, your mother.”  
  
“Er...yeah.” He squashed the pang of guilt this remark produced.   
  
“There’s nothing else? No problems at home? No disagreements with friends?”  
  
He was a perceptive old git, Derry admitted to himself. “No, sir,” he lied.  
  
“Interesting. I suspect that Miss Murphy would tell a different story.”  
  
“Oh.” His stomach curled. “You noticed.”  
  
“I did.” Mr. Proust adjusted his glasses and folded his arms. “How are you feeling now?”  
  
“Better, thanks.”  
  
“How much better?”  
  
Derry frowned, puzzled. There seemed to be more than solicitous concern behind the question. “Lots. Er...why?”  
  
“Because, Derry, I have been meaning to have a conversation with you for quite some time – ever since that morning a few days before study leave, when you had to go home ill.” He leaned forward. “I couldn’t help but overhear what you and Miss Murphy were saying to one another.”  
  
 _A few days before study leave...that would be when...oh, shit._  His sluggish mind cranked unwillingly into gear, trying to concoct a plausible reason for him and Anna to have been having a discussion about how her sister had possibly been reincarnated as a horse.  
  
As though reading his mind, Proust held up his hand. “It’s alright. You don’t have to start excusing and justifying yourselves to me. I am not about to accuse the pair of you of being mentally unsound.” He sucked on his teeth for a moment, and then asked, “Tell me, how familiar are you with the works of C.S. Lewis?”  
  
“What?” He was utterly bewildered now.  
  
“Just answer the question.”  
  
“Well...I’ve never read any of his essays or anything, but I liked the Narnia books when I was a kid.”   
  
“Excellent, excellent. You’ll remember, then, which of the four Pevensie children was the first through the wardrobe and into Narnia.”  
  
“Lucy.”  
  
Mr. Proust nodded. “Indeed it was Lucy.”   
  
Several strands of thought stirred in Derry’s mind that felt like they should be connected – almost like a rope that had frayed into multiple pieces. As yet, though, he couldn’t quite make the links.  
  
“Now,” continued Proust, “do you remember how Lucy’s siblings reacted when she told them what had happened?”  
  
 _Ah._  A few strands of the rope began to plait together. “They didn’t believe her.”  
  
“No.” He tilted his head. “Are you following me so far?”  
  
“Yes, sir, I think so, but-”  
  
Proust held up his hand again. “They went to Professor Kirke to ask his advice, and he outlined three possibilities. Number one: Lucy was mad. They rejected this instantly. Number two: Lucy was lying. Despite their misgivings about her story, they had to admit that she had always been an exceptionally honest girl – which left only one possibility.”  
  
“She was telling the truth.” Something like nausea rose inside Derry as the stray thoughts collected and formed a coherent whole.  
  
“Precisely. She was telling the truth.”  
  
He shook his head. “I don’t understand. How can...wait.” A thought struck him. “How much of what we were saying did you actually hear?”  
  
“All of it, more or less.”  
  
“The verses?” He didn’t want to utter the name of Tolkien, just in case Proust by some miracle had missed that part of the conversation.   
  
“Oh yes. ‘From the ashes a fire shall be woken’ and so forth. Yes, yes, I heard that.”  
  
“And you know where they’re from?”  
  
“Yes, I do,” Proust responded sharply. “Kindly stop prevaricating about the proverbial bush.”  
  
In spite of himself Derry chuckled. “Sorry, sir.” He fell silent and rested his forehead on the palms of his hands. He needed to unpick the implications of what Proust had just said. It would seem that he knew about Anna’s visions of the other world and the white foal, and that he believed she really had heard people from that world quoting Tolkien. But surely no teacher would hold with such ideas? Hell, there was a reason that he and Anna confided in nobody but each other – it was all too strange to expect anyone on the outside to believe it – and yet here was Proust, calmly insinuating that he thought Anna was telling the truth. “I have to be missing something somewhere,” Derry muttered, half to himself.  
  
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I should not have bothered you with this now.” Proust laid a hand on his shoulder. “I was afraid for you, though.”  
  
“Afraid?”  
  
“For the two of you. Believe me, Derry, you are not mad and neither is she. I feared that you would come to think that was the case.”  
  
“It was getting that way.” Derry gave a half-hearted smile, doing his best to ignore the confusion that seethed beneath his casual veneer. “I’ve been trying not to think about it.”  
  
“Perhaps a wise decision in the circumstances – your health, the exams, and so on. However, I believe it may well be time to start thinking about it, if for nothing other than the sake of your relationship with Miss Murphy.” Proust gazed steadily at him. “She’s a wonderful girl – the sort of friend that it doesn’t bear losing.”  
  
“I know.” He kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. “I know I’ve been shutting her out, but I couldn’t stand talking about the dreams, and the other world, and all that stuff...and I know I’ve not been well, I didn’t want her worried...”  
  
“Hmm. So instead you worried her even more by keeping silent and avoiding her. Most sensible.”  
  
“Not avoiding her!” Derry protested, nettled. “Just...well...” He stopped short, realising that he had yet to ask the obvious question. “Sir, how the hell do you know about all this?”  
  
“About what, Derry?” Proust responded mildly.  
  
“About...well, the other world, and things...”  
  
“Which other world? Depending upon which branch of science you subscribe to, there may or may not be an infinite number of those. Give me its name.”  
  
“What?” For the first time in the conversation he felt irritated. “I don’t know its name!”  
  
“Yes, you do. You all but supplied it to Miss Murphy a few weeks ago.”  
  
“But-”  
  
“Use your head, boy. You know where that quote came from.”  
  
“Tolkien?” He frowned. “I don’t understand.”  
  
With the air of one explaining elementary mathematics to a small child, Mr. Proust said slowly, “The name of Tolkien’s creation.”  
  
“ _The Lord of the Rings_? What – oh. I see.” He swallowed. “Middle-earth.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Sir, you can’t think...”  
  
“No, I don’t think. I know.”  
  
“But...” Derry’s argument stalled in his mouth. His imagination simply refused to process what Mr. Proust seemed to be saying. “Then...that place...” To his horror he felt a hot wedge of panicked tears rising from his chest to his throat, and he choked them down. “Sir, there’s no way...” He stopped again and took a deep breath. His head had gone light again, and there seemed to be an air-filled gap where his knees should be. “Are you saying that Anna’s sister has been reincarnated as a horse in...in Middle-earth?”  
  
Out loud it sounded so ludicrous that he almost wanted to laugh; it was like the synopsis of a bad TV show. Mr. Proust, though, remained silent.  
  
“But it’s not a real place,” Derry argued, even though his teacher had said nothing to confirm or deny the previous statement. “It’s made up. Tolkien invented it, they found all his notes and everything, histories, drafts, timelines, files of information on the languages, loads of stuff!” He paused, fighting the strangling grip of the sobs he longed to give in to. This was where he needed Anna, with her cool logic and common sense – or even his mother, with her unwavering belief that a cup of tea and a good chat would make everything alright. “Sir, if you’re trying to convince me that Anna and I aren’t mad, then I’m sorry but you’re doing a piss poor job!”  
  
Mr. Proust raised his eyebrows at that. “I’m sorry you think so. Does it not help to know that you are not alone? That your experiences can be confirmed by an outsider?”  
  
“How do you know, though? And...and how can that place be Middle-earth?”  
  
“I’ll answer your second question first. You are planning to study English next year, are you not?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then as a lover of literature, you must know that many great works of fiction are based on truth.”  
  
“Well, yes, but-”  
  
“Then why should Tolkien’s creation be any different?”  
  
“Because they’ve found all the drafts – he didn’t know what he was doing at first, he didn’t write it coherently or anything...”  
  
Mr. Proust shrugged. “There are explanations to be found for that somewhere, no doubt. Perhaps it was no more than a clever ruse on the part of the professor.”  
  
Frustration bubbled inside Derry. “But-”  
  
“You young people are all far too fond of that horrible little word ‘but’,” sighed Proust. “We are short of time; accept for now that this Middle-earth you believe to be a fiction is very much a reality. Or it was,” he added softly.   
  
Derry tilted his head to one side, curiosity fighting its way to the top of the swirl of emotions inside him. For a moment Mr. Proust’s face appeared ageless, touched with a sadness and longing he’d never imagined could appear on the older man’s jolly, benevolent countenance. He guessed that his teacher no longer saw the bland exam room around them and that Proust’s mind was somewhere far away – perhaps even somewhere that his, Derry’s, mind had visited not so long ago. He felt an intuitive rush of understanding. “Were you there too, Sir?”  
  
Mr. Proust blinked. “I beg your pardon?”  
  
“You were, weren’t you? That’s how you know!” Giddy excitement now surged through him. “You were in that other world too – in Middle-earth,” he added hastily.  
  
 _Not that I believe it yet, but it might keep him happy._  
  
“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about, Derry,” Mr. Proust replied, but did not bother to conceal his delighted smile – and as he got to his feet, Derry could have sworn that he winked.  
  
 _Oh, so I’m on the right track! Be proud of me, Anna – shit. Anna._  He bit his lip. It would seem that he owed his friend an apology.   
  
To distract himself from his guilt, he asked, “Sir, who were you?”  
  
“If you do not know then I cannot tell you.” Proust extended a hand to him. “Come on – can you manage the stairs? No doubt your mother will be parked outside, worrying to kingdom come.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He hesitated as he got up. “Are you going to tell her? That I collapsed, I mean, not the other stuff.”  
  
Proust considered. “You look better already. On the whole...no, I think not. But for goodness’ sake, get some rest!”  
  
Derry grinned. “Yes, sir. And I’ll phone Anna – in a couple of days, though, when I’ve had chance to get my head around things.” The implications of the conversation they had just had gathered on the edges of his mind like a brooding thundercloud. He shivered. “Sir – about...you know...the other world...”  
  
“Do not refer to it unless you are absolutely certain that you cannot be overheard,” Proust said warningly. “We will discuss it further, yes – although first I want to see you back to your old self.”  
  
“But...” began Derry teasingly, then ducked as Mr. Proust pretended to swat at him.  
  
“Incorrigible boy,” sighed the older man, shaking his head. “Go on – home with you.”  
  
The sun was still shining as Derry crossed the playground, although the breeze skittering in from over the fields was cooler than normal for June. He couldn’t make up his mind what to feel – there was relief that exams were over, but at the same time he knew that it would be all too easy to trip over the precipice and into the cloying panicked confusion that had threatened to overwhelm him up in the exam room. Proust’s revelation had stunned him. At the moment, he decided, what he needed was a good sleep, followed by a good think – then, when he had matters straight inside his own head, he would phone Anna. No more excuses.


	26. Handfasting

The day was clear, the yawning expanse of blue sky speckled with wisps of cloud. A good omen, Beomia thought, reaching up and twisting one of the ribbons her mother had tied into her hair.   
  
Eadwyn slapped her hand back down to her side. “Leave it alone!” she hissed. “I didn’t spend hours combing out that wild gorse bush of yours only to have you spoil my handiwork before we even get to the square.”  
  
“I’m sorry, mother.”  
  
“And just mind the hem of your dress. It won’t do for you to go to your own handfasting all covered in dust.”  
  
Obediently Beomia picked up her skirts and held them above the dirty ground. Behind her, she heard one of her cousins giggling, only to be berated by a stiff-faced aunt. An involuntary spasm of laughter rose in her own throat, and she swallowed it, not wanting to grate on Eadwyn’s fraught nerves any further. Anticipation eddied and swirled in her stomach. She couldn’t decide whether she was nervous or excited – despite her new willingness to marry Aiken, she couldn’t help but feel the occasional pang of regret. She had grown up beyond recognition this year, she knew, but this somehow felt like the final step on the journey.   
  
 _Well, there’s one more to come afterwards – but I won’t worry about that just yet_ , she thought to herself, nerves temporarily winning the battle for dominance. Imagining her wedding night would be no help to her at the present moment.  
  
Her cousins, at least, were in high spirits, she reflected as another one tripped and giggled. And well they might be – all were dressed to their best in identical green shifts to match hers, with white ribbons wound into their hair. “Green for fertility, and white for purity,” as her mother had said. For them this was no more than a rehearsal. They were permitted to dress like brides in order to confuse any evil spirits who might be jealous of the true bride (not, of course, that Beomia believed in such superstitious nonsense), but they bore none of the responsibilities. Their mouths would utter no vows; the eyes of the crowd would not rest upon them.  
  
At the end of the street the houses opened out into a square, where a market was held on certain days of the month. Today, though, there were no stalls and no baying traders. Two curved lines of people stood on opposite sides of the open space, yellow-white sunlight washing over them as they chattered amongst themselves, clearly waiting. At the far end of the square were three figures, all standing a little apart from each other. She shifted so that the sunlight wasn’t glaring into her eyes, and identified her father, Aiken – and Eothain.  
  
Joy merged with confusion for a moment, and then she understood. The ceremony had to be overseen by a man with no blood connection to either family; as a friend to both Aiken and herself, clearly Eothain had been asked to perform this duty. He smiled at her as she crossed the square with her party, the muscles in his cheeks slightly stiff, and she realised that he too was nervous. The thought lifted her somehow. She felt the sun warm on her back as she shifted her posture so that she walked straight, though she kept her chin tilted slightly down. Not too brazen or proud a stance, she thought, but with a certain confidence one might not expect in a bride being taken to wed with a man more than twice her age.   
  
Aiken, she saw as she drew nearer, looked happier than she had ever seen him. She returned his smile as she came to a halt in front of the three of them, then lowered her eyes and bobbed slowly into a curtsey to each one in turn in the traditional gesture of submission. As she did so the hem of her shift stirred up a cloud of dust in the dry square, and it tickled her nose as it drifted upwards. It tasted musty and sweet in her mouth. Strange, she thought, that dust could be sweet – and then her attention was drawn by Eothain lifting his hand for silence among the crowd.  
  
“First, friends,” he began, “I must ask whether any of you have reason to believe that this handfasting cannot lawfully take place.”  
  
The two assembled lines shifted at the question, and there was a gentle hiss of rustling clothes as the idly curious turned to see if any would answer, but all remained quiet. The question was mere tradition.   
  
Eothain smiled at Aiken and Beomia. “Excellent; the two of you may now relax.”  
  
A ripple of laughter ran through the onlookers, though through the corner of her eye Beomia caught her mother wearing a disapproving scowl.  
  
From a pocket in his tunic Eothain produced two lengths of cord, each with half a golden ring tied into its centre. He knotted the first of these and hung it around Aiken’s neck, then looped the second around Beomia’s.  
  
“Aiken,” he said, “do you swear in good faith to return to this woman, and to make what is broken whole?”  
  
“I swear it in good faith,” Aiken responded. His face was still and calm, but the corners of his mouth were tilted upwards and joy was in his eyes. Beomia smiled again. It was her turn now.  
  
“Then by the grace and leave of my father,” she answered, “I promise you my fidelity, my obedience and my seed.”  
  
“And in return I promise you shelter and protection from harm,” Aiken said.  
  
A warm breeze curled lazily up the street and ruffled her hair. The two of them joined hands, closed their eyes and rested their foreheads together. Aiken’s skin, she noticed, was soft and dry. His breath tickled against her upper lip. He smelled of leather and hay and sawdust –clean, industrious, kindly smells, she thought. A contented lull settled over the swell of her nerves.  
  
There was no kiss; that was reserved for the final wedding ceremony, which would take place outside the couple’s home-to-be. This stance they held now was a mere precursor to the joining to come. After a moment’s pause she felt Eothain’s rough, callused fingers separating their hands, to show that the bond was not yet final, and then she moved to stand beside her father, who rested his hand on her shoulder.   
  
Eothain turned to Aldhelm and declared, “She is still yours, but by your grace and leave, she will be his by and by.”  
  
Aldhelm nodded to show his assent and understanding, though his mouth was tight and his eyes were cool. He reached out to clasp hands with Aiken in the standard gesture of peace and affection – and then it was done. Relief and a gentle sense of happiness waved over her, and the breeze sighed again, and the swirls of dust shimmered in the sunshine. The crowd of her friends and relatives converged to offer their congratulations and well wishes; she answered them briefly and politely, and introduced Aiken to those who were not familiar with him, but all the while kept her eyes on Eothain. The young Captain stood watching for a while with a strange, wistful smile on his whiskered face. As she had suspected he might, though, he soon turned to leave.  
  
She laid a hand on Aiken’s arm. “I’ll be back in a moment,” she whispered, and darted through the crowd after Eothain, dousing her guilt over abandoning her newly handfasted husband-to-be in the knowledge that Eadwyn would take charge and show him off like a much-prized horse.   
  
“Eothain!” she called. “Eothain, wait a moment!”  
  
He turned and smiled at her as she scuffled to a sharp halt. “As dignified as ever, I see,” he teased.  
  
She laughed. “Thank you for what you did today. I couldn’t have thought of anyone better.”  
  
“You’re welcome. It was Aiken’s idea.”  
  
“It was a good one.”  
  
He took her hand, the hard skin of his fingers catching on her knuckles, and raised it to just below his mouth. “If I may?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
For the briefest of moments he pressed his lips to the back of her hand, and then let it fall. “You look radiant.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“And happy.” He tilted his head. “You are, aren’t you? Happy, I mean.”  
  
She nodded. “Thanks to you.”  
  
An odd expression flashed in his eyes then, she thought – but the next instant it was gone, and she dismissed it. “Won’t you stay a while?” she asked. “Mother has prepared a meal for everyone – nothing grand, of course, but you’d be more than welcome to join us. I’d like it, and I know Aiken would.”  
  
“Thank you, but no. I must get home. Mother will want the gossip from today,” he added, grinning.  
  
“What’s to gossip about?”  
  
“Oh, how the ceremony went, how you looked, and so forth.”  
  
“Could she not have come herself?” Beomia asked, and then realised she had sounded slightly peevish.  
  
Eothain, though, did not seem to notice. He shook his head. “She has not been well of late.”  
  
“Oh.” She digested this, remembering the old lady’s kind words to her on that winter afternoon, when she had been able to see nothing ahead of her but blank despair. “I’m sorry.”  
  
He shrugged, though a crease of worry had appeared between his eyes. “It is to be expected at her age.” Then his face relaxed and he added, “You appear to have been away too long – here is Aiken come to claim you.”  
  
She turned and smiled, offering her arm to the man she would soon call her husband. “I’m sorry, Aiken – I couldn’t let him slip away without a word.”  
  
“No, indeed.” Aiken clapped Eothain on the shoulder and then took Beomia’s arm, squeezing it gently. “Thank you for today, my friend.”  
  
“You are more than welcome,” Eothain replied quietly. “Congratulations to the pair of you.”  
  
“Thank you,” responded Aiken. He paused, eyeing his friend as though about to ask him something, then simply said, “My regards to your mother.”  
  
Eothain nodded. “I will pass them on.” He glanced at Beomia and then back at Aiken. “I should go.”  
  
Beomia watched him for a while as he retreated down the street, feeling vaguely uneasy. She waited until she was sure he was out of earshot before asking, “Is his mother very ill?”  
  
Aiken hesitated. “I do not know.” He smiled down at her and gave her arm a small shake. “Come – let us go back to our guests. We are neglecting them shamefully.”  
  
“That we are,” she agreed, and allowed him to lead her back across the square. Her concern over Eothain dissipated as the sunlight stretched down to warm them, and the wind’s fingers tugged playfully at the ribbons in her hair.


	27. Unexpected Conversations

“Derry?”  
  
Derry sat up and removed his earphones. “Yeah, Mum?”  
  
“Friend to see you!”  
  
His stomach and heart reversed places for a moment. “I’m on my way down.”  
  
He expected it to be Anna. He hadn’t rung her yet; the only contact they’d had was a brief conversation via text, establishing that he was OK after the incident in the exam room. Guiltily he told himself that it was because he hadn’t yet wrapped his head around Proust’s revelation, but the truth was that he had no idea how to approach her now. After the intensity and closeness that had followed their kiss in her room, to switch into a more distanced relationship had been odd – though he had told himself it was necessary. He hadn’t been well, she had been preoccupied with thoughts of her sister and the other world – Middle-earth, he mentally corrected himself – and neither of them had needed the issues of the other. Now, though, the thought of trying to slip back into their old easy slightly-more-than-friends relationship was a daunting one. They needed to talk, but that would inevitably lead to discussion about both Middle-earth and the terrifying concept of a capitalised Us.  
  
When he opened the living room door, though, it wasn’t Anna shyly perching among the cushions on the sofa.  
  
It was Louisa.  
  
“Hey,” she said, getting to her feet.  
  
“Hey yourself,” he responded, not sure if he was disappointed or relieved that she wasn’t Anna. “Er – how are you?”  
  
“Fine.” She looked him up and down and gave a grin. “No need to ask about you – you look loads better!”  
  
“Yeah,” he smiled, embarrassed. “A few good nights’ sleep worked wonders.”  
  
“I’m glad.” She stepped across and hugged him tightly. “God, you had us worried last week!”  
  
Surprised, he wrapped his arms around her in response. “Sorry. I didn’t realise how bad I’d got.”  
  
She snorted and let him go. “I could have told you that. You’d been wandering around like a ghost for weeks; you looked dreadful!”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“Any time.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Anyway, since you’re so obviously better, I don’t feel guilty coming here and saying what I meant to.”  
  
“Er...” He sat down, suddenly feeling nervous.   
  
Louisa joined him on the sofa and tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder, a definite glint in her blue eyes. “It’s about Anna,” she announced.  
  
“You do surprise me.”  
  
She giggled. “Oh, I came here to tell you off, but I can’t!” She ran her fingers through her hair and looked him in the eye. “Derry, I have no idea what’s wrong with you, and unless you want to tell me then I don’t want to know –”  
  
“Oh, I don’t mind telling. Not now.” He was surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth, but for some reason – perhaps because she had made the effort and come to see him – he suddenly felt that it wouldn’t matter if Louisa knew. Hell, it might even help Anna if she didn’t have to carry the secret around by herself. “I was shot in the head last summer – here, look.” He lifted his curtain of hair as he had done for Anna all those months ago, and stifled his urge to laugh at Louisa’s eyes rounding like milk saucers at the sight. “I’m more or less OK now, or as much as I can be, but...well, y’know, I have to take care of myself more than the average person. For one thing I need to get a decent amount of rest, which I haven’t been doing lately.” He gave her a grin. “Sorry to drop it on you, but...”  
  
“No,” said Louisa immediately. “No, it’s fine. Actually – please don’t take this the wrong way – I’m almost glad.”  
  
He raised his eyebrows. “Erm – is there a right way to take that?”  
  
“Me and Nat have been coming up with all kinds of theories,” she explained, blushing. “Anna mentioned you weren’t well – oh, she didn’t give us details,” she added, seeing his mutinous glower. “But of course after the whole thing with the Maths exam we knew there was something wrong. Not that I hadn’t guessed anyway. But yeah. We thought you might have cancer or something.”  
  
“No.” He shivered. “No, nothing like that. OK, I see what you mean – it could be worse.”  
  
“So as soon as you’re rested up, you’re going to be fine?”  
  
“Essentially, yes.”  
  
“Right. Good.” She gave his hand an awkward squeeze, and then the glint returned. “So what’s the deal with Anna?”  
  
He sighed, and decided the best policy would be to stall for time. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Are you two together?”  
  
“Er – no. Not really.” He tilted his head. “Couldn’t she have told you that?”  
  
“I can’t get a straight answer out of her. All I know is that she’s convinced she’s done something wrong, because you won’t speak to her, and I understand if you’ve just been wanting a bit of space recently, but I think – if that’s all it is – then you should at least make the effort to let her know it isn’t something she’s done.”  
  
“Right. OK. Will do.”  
  
Louisa opened her mouth slightly, then shut it again, considering. “It is more than that, isn’t it?”  
  
 _If only you knew._  He didn’t answer, though. He couldn’t. Not without explaining about the dreams, and everything Proust had told him after the exam.  
  
“Derry?” Louisa’s voice was gentle, her eyes curious. “You like her, right? I mean, like like, not just like.”  
  
He smiled. “I love girl-speak. You use a word twice in succession and it totally changes its meaning.” He brushed his hair off his face and sighed. “Yeah, I do.”  
  
“And stuff happened between you, and then you got ill, and now you don’t know where to go...let me know if I’m way off target.”  
  
“No,” he said, vaguely impressed. “No, so far you’re pretty close.” He leaned back into the cushions, eyeing Louisa thoughtfully. This straight-talking, no-nonsense girl was a far cry from the giggling gossip he’d had her marked down for. Of course she could have no idea about the Middle-earth factor, but, discounting that, she had more or less summed up his dilemma in a sentence. “Well, you seem to know all about it. What do you think I should do?”  
  
“It depends. Do you want her to be your girlfriend?”  
  
For some reason he was reminded of the ludicrously catchy Avril Lavigne song that had blared out of every pre-teen girl’s phone and iPod for the last two years, and did his best not to snort. “Erm...tough question. Yes and no.”  
  
“You like it where it is, then. You like the ambiguity.”  
  
“I hadn’t thought of it like that, but...yeah, I suppose so.”  
  
“Right.” She folded her arms. “If you were any other guy, and this were any other girl, I’d tell you that you were being a complete bastard.”  
  
He did laugh then. “Cheers.”  
  
“I’m serious! Girls are complicated, sure, but we like to know where we stand – we’re not psychic.” She shuffled around so that she was facing him directly, her knees tucked up under her chin. “Lucky for you though, Anna’s a special case. You know about her sister.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“She wouldn’t thank me for saying this, but that screwed her up big time. Emotionally, I mean,” she added hastily. “I’m not saying she’s crazy or anything like that...well, maybe a bit, but no more than the rest of us.” She grinned. “I think she’d be happy enough to take things slowly – y’know, not stick the ‘girlfriend’ label on herself too soon. Don’t get me wrong, she likes you too – oh, shit, I shouldn’t have said that – well, you probably knew anyway...oh, God, I’m messing this up now.”  
  
“No,” he chuckled. “This is fascinating. Keep going.”  
  
“Well...” She hesitated. “There’s not much more to say. My advice would be to stay friends, but...maybe...I don’t know, a bit more as well?”  
  
“Friends with benefits?” He raised his eyebrows, and she threw a cushion at him.  
  
“No! Not the way that’s usually meant, anyway. See how it goes. Play it by ear. Go with the flow. All the standard clichés.”  
  
“Alright. Thanks...but what about now?”  
  
“Now?”  
  
“Yeah. What do I say to her?”  
  
“Easy. Phone her up, apologise, explain, and ask her to the Prom.”  
  
An uneasy weight of guilt settled in his stomach. “Yeah, about that...”  
  
“Don’t even think of saying you’re not going!” she warned, the glint returning with force.  
  
“I can’t. I’m supposed to be resting. And I’m not good with flashing lights and loud noise. And I don’t have a ticket.”  
  
Louisa’s face fell.  
  
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I know you probably had it all planned in your head, Hollywood-style...”  
  
“How did you guess?” she said, forlorn. “Come on, Derry. Even if you don’t want to ask Anna, come for a bit – at least for the dinner, that won’t be noisy. It won’t be the same without you,” she added, widening her eyes again.  
  
“Give over. I know you too well to fall for that routine again – that look’s got me into detention for letting you copy homework more times than I care to count!”  
  
“I’m serious!” she protested. “You’re my friend as well as Anna’s. And Nat’s too, even if she is behaving like an idiot at the moment. We want you there.”  
  
For the first time since before he was shot, Derry felt an odd constricting sensation in his chest that had nothing to do with tears or grief or anger. He felt a rush of affection for all of the three girls who had befriended him since he arrived down south, and it was only now that he realised what he had gained. In Anna he had a best friend and maybe more. The other two, though, were essential in a different way. Despite disagreements and tangled feelings, their little group was perfectly balanced – they complemented each other in terms of personality and sense of humour, they felt easy and relaxed around one another, and they cared enough about each other to try and iron out any issues within their surrogate family. He still didn’t know them that well – not like they knew each other – but he saw now that he had, in their eyes, become a part of them. He swallowed. “I’ll see,” he promised.  
  
It was the most he could do, even if it was half-hearted. Louisa didn’t seem entirely satisfied, but she dropped the matter and switched to chattering about whether she had a chance of being asked to the Prom by Spats Wiley, the Year Eleven cricket team’s fast bowler.   
  
“Why do they call him Spats?” he asked curiously – but Louisa blushed and wouldn’t answer.  
  
When she left he felt a flatness that had less to do with his confusion over Anna and the dreams, and more to do with an aching regret that he’d have to disappoint Louisa by not turning up to the Prom. He blew upwards, ruffling his curtain of hair, and leaned against the wall in the hallway.  
  
“Tired?” his Mum asked him, emerging from the kitchen and proffering a cup of tea.  
  
“No, I’m alright.”  
  
She paused, as though nervous. Derry noticed how vulnerable she looked in her weekend get-up of tracksuit bottoms and one of his Dad’s old shirts, her face scrubbed bare of makeup, and the affectionate tug he had so recently felt for the three girls at school suddenly switched direction and encompassed her too. He put his mug of tea down on the bookshelf and gave her a hug, breathing in her comforting homely smell of kitchen cleaner, cooking and the traces of yesterday’s perfume.  
  
“Are you sure?” she asked him, hesitantly stroking his hair. For one bizarre moment Derry thought she was questioning his sudden display of affection, then realised she was asking about his claim to be alright.  
  
“Yep,” he replied, releasing her. “Fine.”  
  
She nodded. “Louisa seemed like a nice girl.”  
  
He knew by her tone that she was trying to be casual, to pretend that this was an average conversation between mother and son, but there was a tentative waver in her voice that told him she expected to be rejected. Guilt needled at him again. It was a sensation he was rapidly becoming used to. “Yeah, Louisa’s great.”  
  
“It was good of her to come and see you.” She stirred her tea and asked delicately, “Is it...are you two...?”  
  
“What? Me and Louisa?” He shook his head and couldn’t help grinning. “Nah.”  
  
“No, I thought not. It’s always been Anna for you, hasn’t it?” She took a sip of tea. “What’s happened there, love?”  
  
He made a noncommittal gesture. “It’s complicated.”  
  
“I thought it might be.” They were silent for a while, and then she said, “I...I couldn’t help overhearing you telling Louisa that you couldn’t go to the Prom. Not even the dinner.”  
  
Not wanting to spoil their temporary reconciliation, he swallowed his annoyance that his mother had blatantly been listening at the door. “Well, I can’t. I don’t have a ticket and they’re all sold out.”  
  
“I think it would do you good to go.”  
  
He gaped. “Come again?”  
  
She smiled slightly. “Maybe not the dance. But I think you’ve been moping around the house for long enough. Couldn’t your form teacher get you a ticket somehow? You seem to be friendly with him.”  
  
“Proust? I dunno.”  
  
“Well, have a think about it anyway.” She turned to go back into the kitchen, then paused. “Derry, I’m sorry if I’ve overdone it with you this last year. I know you’re nearly seventeen, and you want a bit of independence and so on, but...”  
  
“It’s OK,” he replied quickly, embarrassed. “It’s been hard for you, I know.”  
  
“Hard for both of us.”  
  
He nodded. “Too true.”


	28. Shift

Anna plucked at the silky sea-green fabric frothing around her thighs. “It’s too short.”  
  
“Don’t be daft,” replied Louisa for the umpteenth time. She stretched out on her stomach and lined up six bottles of nail varnish in a neat row on Anna’s wooden floor. “Do you think pink clashes with pale green?”  
  
“Try it and see.” Anna turned to face her. “I’m not so sure that crawling about like that in your prom dress is a good idea; the floor’s probably covered with dust.”  
  
“In this house? Pull the other one.”  
  
Anna shrugged and turned back to the full-length mirror propped precariously against her book shelf. She fiddled with the skirt of her dress, still dissatisfied. “It is too short.”  
  
“Oh, Anna!”  
  
“It is! The world and his wife are going to be able to see what I ate for breakfast!” She stepped carefully over Louisa and stuck her head out of the bedroom door. “Nat?”  
  
“Yeah?” called her other friend, who was busy doing her makeup in the bathroom.  
  
“Which dress did you decide to wear?”  
  
“The red.”  
  
“Can I wear one of the others, then?”  
  
“If you like.”  
  
“I don’t think they’re going to fit you, Anna; they’ll be miles too big,” said Louisa.  
  
“Oi!” came an indignant yell from the bathroom.  
  
“No offence, Nat.”  
  
Anna considered the choices spread before her on her bed – Nat’s cast-offs. There was a full-length purple number she remembered her friend wearing to someone’s Christmas party, a flouncy cream-coloured creation that looked like it had escaped from the dessert section of Sainsbury’s, and two near-identical black ones that still had the labels in them.   
  
“Don’t wear either of the black ones,” Louisa advised her without even looking. “You’re so pale anyway that they’d make you look like a vampire.”  
  
“Er...thanks.”  
  
“Well, if you can’t rely on your friends for honesty...”  
  
“I know, I know.” She chewed her bottom lip, thinking. “I don’t really like the cream one.”  
  
“Oi!”  
  
“No offence, Nat.”  
  
“Looks like purple, then,” said Louisa. “Or you could just stick with the blue one, which fits you and is absolutely gorgeous.”  
  
Anna studied her reflection. The short strapless dress clung to her bust and waist, then flared out over her hips and drifted down to mid-thigh in a sea of sheer fabric layers. “You don’t think it’s too much skin?”  
  
“Hell no. Not with a figure like yours. You look like an elf, only sexier.”  
  
Anna giggled. “I can hardly breathe in it, you know. I’ve put so much weight on recently.”  
  
“Good. You needed to. Anyway,” added Louisa, rolling onto her back and grinning wickedly up at her, “I know which one Derry would prefer to see you in.”  
  
Anna studiously ignored this last comment. “You’re going to ruin that dress.”  
  
“Don’t change the subject.”  
  
Having finally settled on one part of her outfit, Anna opened her wardrobe and undertook the search for matching shoes. “What Derry thinks is completely irrelevant. He isn’t going to be there.”  
  
“True. True. Are you guys talking yet?”  
  
“Sort of. On the phone. It’s a bit awkward.” She paused in her search and swallowed the ache rising in her throat. “I miss him,” she added, half to herself.  
  
Louisa reached out and squeezed her hand for a moment, then asked, “Do you think I should paint my nails green?”  
  
Anna laughed in spite of herself. “Up to you.”  
  
“But my dress is green. That’s too much green, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t want to go to the Prom looking like a cucumber.”  
  
*  
  
At the Elizabeth Royal, girls skittered about in the driveway trying to keep their hair in place for photos, while boys shuffled from foot to foot in the entrance, trying to avoid tearful mothers. Mr. Proust bustled about beaming, and waved cheerily to Anna as she unfolded herself from the car.  
  
“Be careful in those heels,” her Dad warned her, eyeing the vertigo-inducing stilettos with no small measure of anxiety.  
  
“Yes, Dad.” She leaned back in and kissed him. “Thanks for the lift.”  
  
“Yeah, thanks, Mr. Murphy!” Louisa called, and then got swept away by a crowd of shrieking girls. Anna laughed and moved to join her, but her Dad caught hold of her hand.  
  
“Just a moment, love.” He hesitated and glanced around. “You might want to get back in.”  
  
Puzzled, she complied. “What’s up?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing.” He reached into his pocket and produced a small tissue-wrapped parcel. “I was going to give you this earlier – it’s what she’d have wanted, I think – but with your Mum and Grandma about I thought it had maybe best wait until we got here...”  
  
Still none the wiser, Anna carefully unfolded the layers of pink tissue – and gasped as she uncovered a silver pendant moulded in the shape of a rearing horse. It had been Izzy’s, a present for doing well in one of her tournaments. She had worn it to her own Prom at this time last year. “Oh God.” Anna took a deep breath, trying to stop it catching in her throat. “Oh, God. I had no idea you’d kept this.”  
  
“We kept everything,” said her Dad, with a chuckle that wasn’t entirely sincere. “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to...”  
  
“No, no, I do,” replied Anna quickly, blinking back tears as she fastened the clasp behind her neck.   
  
“That’s it – fill that bare neckline up a bit, eh?”  
  
“Wow.” Anna coughed slightly, trying to loosen the hot damp lump in her throat. “You made a sensible comment about fashion. I think I may faint from the shock.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. You’ll worry your friend over there.” He nodded over to a recess in the hotel wall. Anna followed his gaze and felt her heart and stomach somersault over each other.  
  
Derry was leaning there, his eyes carefully averted from Anna’s car.  
  
“Nice boy, that one,” her Dad remarked casually.  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“I liked him when he was over for dinner that night.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Alright then, be that way,” he teased. “Sort out your makeup before you go and meet him though. You’ve got panda eyes.”  
  
“I think living in a house full of women has finally got to you, Dad,” she smiled, carefully correcting her eyeliner in the rear view mirror where her tears had sent it streaking down her face. “Makeup and fashion advice in one night...shocking.”  
  
He laughed – genuinely, this time. “Have fun, love. Be home by midnight.”  
  
“Just like Cinderella.” She hugged him. “I will be. Have a lovely evening. And thanks for...you know.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”   
  
Derry glanced her way as she carefully extracted herself from the car a second time, and he shot her one of his cheekier smiles, the kind he always gave her when he was about to make some sort of witless quip.  _Well, he can wait for that,_  she thought to herself.  _We need to talk first._  
  
“I thought you weren’t coming,” she said aloud, then wondered why her tone sounded so accusing.  
  
Derry’s smile faded slightly. “I’m only here for the dinner. I rang school and pleaded with Proust.”  
  
She nodded. She didn’t know what to say next.  
  
“You look great,” he ventured, flicking his eyes up and down her figure. He reached out to touch the pendant she wore around her neck. “This is pretty.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“Like you.”  
  
She raised an eyebrow.   
  
“Too cheesy?” he asked, his mouth quirking upwards again.  
  
“Pushing it.”  
  
“OK. Sorry.” He swallowed and looked her up and down again. “You do look great, though.” A familiar mischievous spark appeared in his eyes. “Except...”  
  
“What?” she asked, narrowing her eyes in mock-annoyance.  
  
“Well, I hate to tell you this, but they forgot to put a skirt on your dress.”  
  
She let out an indignant yelp and swatted at him, but he laughed and ducked, then somehow bobbed up a foot closer to her than he had been and took her hand. Her knuckles and fingerbones turned to liquid and her heart jumped a foot upwards into her throat.  
  
“Walk with me?” he asked.  
  
She nodded. “Sure.” The word came out as a semi-whispered squeak. She bit the inside of her cheek, furious with herself, but he was already leading her across the car park and around the herds of their classmates posing for pictures, towards the woods at the side of the hotel.  
  
The Elizabeth Royal, in all its pseudo-gothic glory, sat at the top of a meandering driveway that led off from Pepin Street – known to the locals as Millionaire’s Row – and was attached to several acres of rolling woodland and landscaped gardens. As she picked her way down the gravel pathway under the canopy of tangled branches, Anna wondered how many of her fellow Year Elevens would find themselves out here by the end of the night, exploring each other in ways they would previously not have dared to, inhibitions loosened by the smuggled-in alcohol and the intoxicating promise of prom night. Possibly the teachers would be patrolling it later – but then, it was none of their business what the students got up to off school premises.  
  
She wondered why this last thought pleased her so much.  
  
Fading sunlight filtered through the trees in a dusky gold-green haze, and a soft breeze hissed through the foliage. Anna smoothed her skirt as it threatened to fulfil her fears of earlier. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she murmured, eyeing the flowers that skirted the tree trunks in irregular speckled patches. “Like something out of a film, or a book.”  
  
“Or even Middle-earth.” Derry stopped and turned to face her, smiling. “That was a signposted conversation starter if ever I heard one.”  
  
“Guilty,” she admitted. She brushed at the curls framing her face and studied his reaction. “You don’t seem too bothered, though.”  
  
“No. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for ages.”  
  
“You could be right, you know,” she said immediately. “About me having got mixed up in my head, and imagining those verses.” She didn’t agree with what she was saying, but this awkward half-hearted friendship between her and the person she felt closest to in the world had gone on for long enough. For now, she was prepared to meet him halfway. “The thing about Izzy – well, you’ll have to take my word for that, I know you don’t believe me at the moment but I’m so sure it’s her...”  
  
Derry shook his head. “Anna – ”  
  
“I know it sounds crazy, I’ve said that a hundred times, to you and to myself-”  
  
“Anna, hold up.” He linked his fingers through hers. “I do believe you.”  
  
She blinked. “Come again?”  
  
“Your sister. The Tolkien quote. Everything.”  
  
“What?” She pulled her hand away. “I don’t understand...why the U-turn?” A pang of indignation flared briefly in her chest. “And why didn’t you tell me you’d changed your mind?”  
  
“I’m sorry, I know I should have spoken to you earlier.”  
  
“Yes, you should!” To her horror she felt tears starting again. “I have been more worried than...than...I don’t know...”  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said again.   
  
“Idiot.” She turned her face away, trying to mask emotion with irritation. He reached out and brushed his fingers against her cheek, but she jerked her head backwards.  
  
“Yes, alright, I am an idiot.” He sighed. “But I’m an idiot who believes you now.”  
  
“Why?”   
  
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Erm...I think you’d better sit down.”  
  
“On the floor? In this dress?” She folded her arms. “No, thanks. Whatever you’re about to tell me, I doubt it’ll make me keel over.”  
  
“Right. OK.” He swallowed. “You remember what happened after the Maths exam?”  
  
“Yeah.” She gave an involuntary shudder at the memory of Derry, pale and worn, crumpling to the floor.   
  
“Well, Proust looked after me, and...we sort of had a talk.”  
  
“You talked to Proust about this?” she shrieked disbelievingly.  
  
“Ssh! More like he talked to me about it. He brought it up and everything.”  
  
“But how does he know?”  
  
“Apparently...well, he didn’t exactly say...you know how I was there, and your sister’s there now?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I think Proust must have been there too.”  
  
She took a few steadying breaths, as though the air in her lungs would serve as a substitute for the solid flesh she no longer felt she possessed. “Right.” She breathed in again, determined not to sound disbelieving or to appear shocked senseless. “And you think that...why, exactly?”  
  
Derry recounted the conversation.  
  
“OK.” Anna rubbed at her temples. “Good grief.”  
  
“Are you alright?” He looped his arms around her waist, linking his fingers in the hollow at the base of her spine.  
  
“I’m fine.” She didn’t pull away this time, curling her hands around his upper arms instead.  
  
“Surprising, yeah?”  
  
“That’s one way to put it. God.” She attempted a smile. “How did you cope with that as a revelation, after you’d already had one fainting fit?”  
  
“No idea.” He tightened his grip.  
  
Her breath coming in creeping, hesitant waves, she asked, “Who do you think he was, then?”  
  
“I was hoping you could tell me. Seen anyone in your visions who looks like Proust?”  
  
“Nope.” A thought struck her, and she laughed out loud. “The only person from the books that I can see him having any parallel with is Barliman Butterbur!”  
  
Derry grinned. “He’s certainly no Elvish type, that’s for sure.”   
  
His right hand was sliding up her back, she noticed, and she shivered.  
  
“Cold?”  
  
“A bit.”   
  
It wasn’t a lie – the breeze was unusually cool for the end of June. He pulled her properly into him then, folding her against his chest, and she leaned her cheek against the crisp fabric of his prom shirt. The confused whirl that had been writhing inside her for so long began to subside, and she was left with a feeling that all was coming right with the world.   
  
“I missed you.”  
  
“I missed you.”  
  
He kissed her hair, and a wonderful warmth spread over her scalp from the place his lips had touched. “What now, then?” she heard herself ask.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Well, if we’re fairly sure that it’s Izzy, and the place is definitely Middle-earth, where does that leave us? Where do we go from here?”  
  
“There’s still plenty to think about. Why your sister ended up as a horse, for one thing. Who Proust was, for another.” He stroked his thumb against the bare cool skin of her neck. “How Middle-earth can be real. I’d have thought that was the biggest question.”  
  
She shifted so that she could see his face. As she’d expected, he was frowning, his eyes staring but not seeing. She lifted a hand and cupped his cheek. “Don’t worry now, Derry. Get better first. The timing of all this has been phenomenally bad – although you do look better than the last time I saw you.”  
  
“And I feel it.” He covered her hand with his own, rolling his fingertips over her knuckles and joints. Her throat tightened and her lips prickled as his breath sighed warm against her forehead. “I think you’re right though – let’s enjoy tonight. We’ve got all summer to sort this mess out.”  
  
“There’s something else I haven’t told you. During the Maths exam, I had another vision, but not like the usual ones. It was weird – like Beomia had tried to get in touch with me on purpose.” She explained. “Do you think it’d work both ways? Could I reach her like that, do you reckon?”  
  
“Probably.” He bit his lip. “I don’t like the idea, though. It’s like an Ouija board or something.”  
  
“What?” she laughed.  
  
“Messing with things that are better left alone – oh, I know you’ve had the dreams and whatever, but that was all by accident. Deliberately trying to shift into that world...” He shook his head. “Please don’t. At least not for a while. And if you do then I want to be there.”  
  
“I think you’d have to be for it to work. I only ever dream I’m her when she’s with Annis. It’d make sense that she only dreams of me when I’m with you.”  
  
“Well, anyway.” He rested his chin on the crown of her head. “Like you said, don’t worry now.”  
  
“No.”  
  
She leaned into him, enjoying the gentle swell and fall of his chest as he breathed in and out, the muffled thump of his heartbeat against her ear. His aftershave tickled her nose, sweet and spicy, and as he traced the line of her waist with his fingers she tilted her head up and grazed her lips against his jaw. His skin was cool and smooth. A slightly bitter taste lingered on her mouth – his aftershave, she guessed. She smiled. It didn’t taste as good as it smelled – and then she had no more time for thinking, his mouth was pressed against hers, his tongue teasing her lips open, and she let him, she knew there was no need to be nervous, not with him. Her hand curled into the small of his back. She felt the warmth of his skin and the damp of his sweat through the clean cool cotton. He was holding her very close now, their hips fitting together; feeling bold, she pushed herself against him. He released her mouth with a soft moan.  
  
“What’s up?” she asked him, easing her fingers higher, undoing his top button so that they could play along his collarbone.  
  
“Nothing. Nothing.” He kissed her forehead, his lips soft, damp. His hand eased lower, over her hip and along her bare leg, then upwards again, beneath the swirling fabric of her skirt.  
  
Anna gasped, shocked and intrigued by the demanding ache that awoke in her. She let his thumb slip under the lace and elastic of her underwear and draw a circle on the skin of her hip. “Derry...”  
  
“Sorry.”   
  
“No, it’s OK.”  
  
He withdrew anyway and pulled her into a hug, his fingers resting along the top line of her dress. “Blimey.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You’re shaking,” he teased.  
  
“Am not.”  
  
“Are too.”  
  
“It’s you. Or your imagination.”  
  
He wound his fingers into her hair and his thumb caressed the edge of her ear. She no longer felt like she had a stomach. Or legs. Or a brain to think with. She didn’t dare to say it aloud – she doubted she even had the words to voice the sentiment – but she felt that something had changed irrevocably. In the moment she had let him move beyond simple kissing, even that smallest of steps beyond, something had shifted in their world and relationship. She kissed his neck, sucking gently, not enough to bruise but enough to make him sigh.  
  
When she stopped he squeezed her shoulders. “Suppose we’d better go in.”  
  
“Do we have to?” She laughed. “Oh dear, how pathetic did that sound?”  
  
“Fairly. And yes, we do. We don’t want to miss dinner.”  
  
“No. Tongues would definitely wag.”  
  
“Yup.” He grinned. “Proust’s not least.”  
  
“I’m amazed he hasn’t come to look for us,” she chuckled, swinging her hand in his as they made their way back along the path. A thought struck her. “Why do you think all this has happened, Derry?”  
  
“What? You and me?”  
  
“Partly. Us meeting. The dreams. Everything, really.”  
  
“Obvious, isn’t it?”  
  
“Not to me.”  
  
He grinned. “You’ll hate me for this.”  
  
“Spit it out.”  
  
“We’re Orvyn and Beomia’s second chance.”  
  
Anna gaped at him, then groaned. “Oh, God. Way, way, WAY too cheesy! Line has definitely been crossed!”  
  
“Don’t you agree, though?” He kissed the side of her head, then her cheek, then turned her face towards him and briefly pressed his lips to hers. “It makes sense.”  
  
“None of this makes sense, Derry.”  
  
“True.” He kissed her again, nipping playfully at her lower lip. “True.”  
  
Proust gave them one of his warmest smiles as they entered the Elizabeth Royal hand in hand, and Anna could have sworn he gave an approving nod. They ducked under the banner that read  _Class of 09_ , then spotted Louisa and Nat grinning and waving from the table they were saving. In the seat next to Nat sat Jason Witfleet, while Spats Wiley was perched next to Louisa looking as though he couldn’t believe his good luck.  
  
“I don’t think she had any need to worry about that one,” Derry remarked.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing. Tell you later. Why do they call him Spats, anyway?”  
  
“No idea.”  
  
As they slid into their seats and arranged napkins on their laps, Anna remembered something else that she hadn’t yet told Derry. She leaned across and whispered in his ear, her fingers resting lightly against his wrist. “You know that guy who was in the stable with Beomia that time?”  
  
“Mm?” Derry lifted his water glass to his lips.  
  
She gave a giggle of mischievous anticipation. “It was Aragorn.”  
  
Derry choked and spat his drink onto his plate.


	29. Ages Old

The evening passed in a wonderful swirling haze of laughter and good food, banter with the teachers and sly glances shared with Anna, teasing from Louisa and smug observation of the devotion Spats Wiley showed her. As the DJ began trying to coax people onto the dancefloor by breaking out the Lady Gaga, Derry stretched and yawned, feeling more content than he ever had in his life.  
  
“Hey you,” Anna murmured into his ear, leaning against him.  
  
“Hey yourself.” He put his arm around her, teasing his fingers along her waistline. With pleasure he watched an involuntary smile dance across her face. God, she looked good. “Don’t you want to go and dance?”  
  
“Not yet. I’m too full. Anyway, you’ll be going soon, won’t you?”  
  
“Yeah. Couple of minutes.” In his shirt pocket his phone vibrated, making him jump. “Or now, even. Looks like the parental taxi service has arrived.” For a moment he considered asking her to go back home with him, but decided that it wouldn’t be fair to drag her from her friends tonight.  
  
“Don’t go.” She wound her arms around him.  
  
“Give over. You know I have to.”   
  
“Suppose so.”  
  
He tilted her chin up towards him and kissed her, gently and carefully, the same way he had that first time in her room. He felt rather than heard the regretful moan she made as he pulled away, and he laughed and pulled her close. “See you soon.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Enjoy the rest of your night.” He breathed in the fresh smell of her hair, clean, enticing, and suddenly was reluctant to let her go.  
  
“Thanks. Take care of yourself.”  
  
“Don’t I always?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Fair point.” He looked down at her and grinned. “Night, then.”  
  
She brushed a strand of hair off his face and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Night.”  
  
He was on his way out of the door when someone behind him called, “Mr. Allerton!”  
  
He turned round and smiled at Proust, extending his hand. “Hi, sir. Thanks for a great night.”  
  
“You’re welcome, my boy, more than welcome. You did the right thing in coming; I know someone who certainly appreciated your presence.” He winked. “Most romantic, if I may say so.”  
  
Colour crept into his cheeks. “Well, I had some making up to do.”  
  
“Indeed – though perhaps the woods weren’t the best place to do it, eh? Lucky for you I turned a blind eye. Anyone else might have thought you were up to something.”  
  
“Er – yes, sir. Thanks.” Pink graded into ruby red on his cheeks.  
  
“Not at all. Oh, and just so that you’re aware – we don’t tolerate truancy in our sixth form at Lowood.”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“That April afternoon when you and Miss Murphy remarkably had dental appointments at the same time.”  
  
“Ah.” The red flooded up to his temples. “Sorry about that.”  
  
“Hmm. I let it pass at the time, I see no reason to make an issue of it now – extenuating circumstances and all that.”  
  
“Yes, sir.” He swallowed. “Thanks again.”  
  
Proust waved his hand airily. “Tell me, Derry – do you think that you and Miss Murphy might benefit from...ah...a few extra private lessons from me this summer?”  
  
Derry frowned, at first uncertain what the older man was driving at – then comprehension dawned and his eyes widened. Excitement coursed through him like an adrenaline shot, but he hastily rearranged his face into a neutral expression. “Er – yes, probably. As long as that wouldn’t be too much trouble. Thanks, sir.”   
  
Proust nodded, eyes twinkling. “Consider it settled, then. The three of us have much to discuss.”  
  
A wild impulse shot through Derry, and he asked again, “Who were you, sir?”  
  
“Cold for the time of year, isn’t it?” was Mr. Proust’s jovial reply. “That disco is far too loud for me, I must admit – I’d rather be at home smoking a nice pipe and warming my feet.”  
  
The phrase triggered something in Derry’s memory, and he blinked.  
  
“Yes, I must admit that I smoke the occasional pipe,” smiled Proust. “A bad habit of mine, but a longstanding one. Ages old.” He winked. “Well well, must be off – no doubt your classmates require supervision. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”  
  
“Thanks, sir. You too.”  
  
Worth a shot, Derry told himself as he went to meet his Mum, even if Proust hadn’t given him any kind of sensible response. He’d find out in the end – though there had been just a chance, he’d thought, that his teacher might have let something slip after a couple of glasses of wine.  
  
It wasn’t until he got home that he realised Proust’s cryptic reply might have contained the answer after all. He slipped up to his room and began to leaf through  _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , searching for the phrase that had niggled at his memory.  
  
At three o’clock in the morning, Derry closed the book and shook his head. He felt no overwhelming rush of shock or panic this time; perhaps his system was by now too used to bizarre revelations to produce any extreme reaction. He reached for his phone to text Anna, then thought better of it. She was probably in bed.  
  
He recited the passage again in his mind, and laughed out loud. He couldn’t help it.  
  
 _“You can go on looking forward,” said Gandalf. “There may be many unexpected feasts ahead for you. For myself I should like a pipe to smoke in comfort, and warmer feet.”  
  
Gandalf._ He flopped back onto his bed, grinning.  _Bloody hell._


	30. A View from the Hill

Golden air sighed through the hills, and a warm breeze tickled lazily over lush green grass. The evening light smiled down at Edoras, benign and content. Out in the plains, Beomia’s eyes scanned the horses for Annis’ familiar snow white flanks.   
  
It had been a strange day. Aiken had arrived at her house as soon as dawn began to steal through the streets, his face an unhealthy shade of grey, but with a settled peace in his eyes that could only mean one thing. She hadn’t needed his words to confirm the story his countenance told.  
  
“He is dead.”  
  
For one terrifying moment she had wondered if she were about to see her promised husband cry, but her parents had taken over then. Aldhelm had hauled Aiken through the door and sat him on a stool by the fire; her mother had sent Wulf for a healer to check that Ida was truly dead; she, Beomia, had been set to work cooking soup. Seething with irritation at her mother’s apparent belief that food would solve everything, she had been careless with the knife and sliced open her finger, and Eadwyn had clucked and fussed, and eventually sent her to sit with Aiken, who so far had been kept company by her father. Aldhelm, though, withdrew when his daughter knelt down beside them.  
  
“I’m torn in two, Bee,” Aiken had murmured as she took his hand. “I am glad that he is dead. Am I wicked, do you think?”  
  
“No. No.” She had laid her head in her lap and breathed in the scent of sawdust that was becoming so comfortingly familiar to her. “You called me Bee.”  
  
He had laid a hand on her head then, and she had heard the uncertain smile in his voice. “Do you object?”  
  
“Not in the least.”  
  
Afterwards he had fallen silent, only speaking when spoken to, staring into the fire as though the flames could show him comfort in their cackling dance. It wasn’t long before she and Eadwyn began to fret – he refused to leave the fire, though the day was growing fiercely hot and his forehead was damp – and then Beomia had the presence of mind to send her brother in search of Eothain.   
  
“He will be out riding with his men,” Aiken had said dully – but wherever he had been and whatever he had been doing, Eothain had left it and come straight to his friend’s side.  
  
“Come, Aiken,” he had said softly but firmly after the pair had embraced. “You need air. Let us walk.”  
  
And without a word of protest, Aiken had gone.  
  
For the rest of the day Beomia had fussed and bothered around the house, until Eadwyn and Aldhelm had grown tired of her crotchety company and sent her out for a walk as well. She had considered looking for Aiken and Eothain, but had quickly decided they were better off alone. Instead she had decided to seek the quiet, soothing company of her horse – and now she spotted her, lying on the crest of a hill, with Brego not far off.  
  
“She’s turned into a real beauty, has she not?”  
  
Beomia smiled. “Hello, Father.”  
  
“Hello, lovely one.” He laid his arm across her shoulders. “How goes it?”  
  
She shrugged. “Is it wrong to feel happy on what should be a day of mourning?”  
  
“No.” He scuffled his left boot into the grass, clearly uncomfortable about what he had to say next. “But it would be wrong to pretend so.”  
  
“I do not understand.”  
  
“Beomia, do you love Aiken?”  
  
She considered. “Not yet. I am growing to, though. I admire him. I trust him.” Her mouth curled upwards involuntarily. “He called me Bee today.”  
  
Aldhelm sighed. “I too admire and trust him, and your words lighten my heart – but Beomia, sweet daughter, do not marry him if it is not what you want. I can still withdraw my consent –”  
  
“No, Father,” she said sharply. Her certainty was so solid she felt that she could see it hanging in the air as she spoke the words. “I do want to marry him. He is a good man.” She smiled again. “It is different, what I feel for him – different from the way I was with Orvyn. But I do not think it is worse.”  _And I know that Orvyn too is happy,_  she added silently to herself,  _and would want me to be._  
  
“Very well. If you are sure.”  
  
“I am sure.”  
  
He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. “Then, dearest one, I wish you all the joy this world can give you.”  
  
*  
  
Up on the hilltop, Annis observed the interaction between her bold girl and the one-armed human male. Gentle, then a little angry, then gentle again. Happy. That was good. The bold one was content at last.  
  
Staring down at the pair, the male with his arm wrapped around the bold girl, she felt a strange sensation tug her mind, like the instinctive warning her consciousness gave when danger was nearby. But this was no malevolent shadow. It felt like remembrance. It felt like she had seen the same scene or one like it long before, long ago, a man standing in a field with his arms round a dark-haired human female...  
  
Behind her, Brego snorted. She dismissed the odd feeling in her mind. It was a beautiful evening, and all was well with the world. She got to her feet and cantered over to him, ready to play.   
  
 _No danger. All well._


	31. Epilogue

“I never asked you.” Derry scuffed his feet along the patio paving stones and dragged the swing seat to a halt. “How did you know it was Izzy? In Middle-earth?”

Anna put down the photo album she had been showing him and considered. “After she pulled my hair in the dream – Beomia’s hair, I mean?”

“Yeah. It’s a pretty big leap.”

“Well, horses don’t generally pull people’s hair, but...it was the eyes, I think. The foal’s eyes. I knew I recognised them, right from the start, but I assumed I’d seen them before on a horse. Not a person.” She leaned back and closed her own eyes, enjoying the warming kiss of the sunset on her skin. “That’s all it was. I was looking in the wrong place.”


End file.
